


Faults and Cracks

by MinervaNorth



Series: Sing the Greys [1]
Category: Chicago PD (TV)
Genre: Arson, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Missing Scene, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Torture, Veterans, very briefly in chapter 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-23 15:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaNorth/pseuds/MinervaNorth
Summary: "I'm working on my faults and cracks, filling in the blanks and gaps and when I write them out they don't make sense. I need you to pencil in the rest."Captain Kaitlyn “KC” Cavanagh just barely made it home to Chicago after surviving almost eight years in the Middle East. A chance accident lands her back with her two best friends– Jay and Will Halstead– who help her rebuild. Between the serial killer case building itself up around her and Jay introducing her to his best friend Mouse, KC is quickly overwhelmed by the amount of drama that threatens her day to day life.
Relationships: Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Sing the Greys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537189
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. In a blur of the days and weeks and months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain KC Cavanagh has just come home to Chicago after nearly eight years and runs right into a six car winter pileup. But the chance encounter leads her back to her childhood best friends, Jay and Will Halstead.

**December 26, 2015**  
_1513 Hours_  
_Ohio Street & Michigan Avenue, Chicago_ **  
** **KC**

I am in Chicago, not Afghanistan. I’m not overseas. I am home. I am home. I am—

Even when I open my eyes, I’m not positive. If I turn around, if I look at the carnage behind me, I know that it’s going to look like an I.E.D. exploded.

Assess the situation, Captain. Stay in the present. Don’t slip into the past. You barely just made it back to Chicago—you can’t do this already.

I count at least six cars caught in the same accident. One slid through the intersection—probably due to black ice—and the others either followed suit or slammed into each other. It's cold. I can see my breath. I don't remember being this cold. Has Chicago always been this cold?

There’s smoke, there’s yelling, and somewhere, I hear a child crying. I look around, and already people congregate. No one is calling for help. I don’t see any cell phones. Dammit.

So I point to the lady clutching a leash on a small dog. “You! Call 9-1-1.” I toss my molle to the ground and start sprinting towards the nearest car.

Hopefully they’ll get the cops out here, because we need someone to direct traffic after this carnage.

Carnage, carnage, don’t get distracted. Stay in the moment. No one’s going to hand you an M16 so you can defend yourself. There’s no need to defend yourself. No one’s going to shoot at you.

I get to the first car—the one that started the chain reaction.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” I call out, taking a look at the vehicle. She only slid, but the car behind her making the turn collided with her rear end. She quickly extricates herself from behind the wheel with only a dazed look on her face. There’s a car further away, and they didn’t hit anyone, so we’re lucky—he just looks confused, so I leave him.

“Go to the curb,” I tell the lady, and she warily nods.

I leave her, going to the next car behind her. The driver here looks just as dazed, but he has a ragged cut along his forehead.

“Sir, are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he explains. “But the car behind me may not be.”

I eye up the drivers behind that car, and they’re fine—they’re getting out. The only car left is the one he pointed out.

I run from his car to the cars that collided right in the middle of the intersection. There are actually three—two taking on one in the middle. This car smokes from one end, and when I drop to my knees, something drips from the inside.

A man hunches over the steering wheel and the deployed airbag, unconscious.

I kneel down in front of the door. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

Eventually, he jolts, then cries out in pain—I think his leg is stuck, and he complains of something being very hot. I hear the sirens from far away. I hope they get here in time. While I don’t expect the car to explode like it does in the movies, I don’t want to stick around and find out.

“I’m going to get your door open, alright—what’s your name?”

“Robert,” he says, cringing. “I think something’s smoking—“

I look around for the source, but can't find it. “Something is indeed smoking. Hi, Robert, I’m KC. I’m going to try to get you out, but I don’t want you to get hurt worse than you already are, okay?”

He nods. I don’t think he’s got anything worse than whiplash when it comes to spinal injuries, but I’m not going to have time to figure that out.

“Let me make sure of something, and then I’ll be back, okay?”

Before he can answer, I step back to make sure the passengers of the other two vehicles have left the area, but mostly to regain my breath. It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.

“Okay, it’s just you and me, Robert,” I say. I pull the camouflage sleeve over my hand. “Robert, cover your face.”

First, I punch the glass. It’s already spidery, so it doesn’t take a lot for the rest of it to crack. I use my covered camo sleeve to push away the shards from the window.

The sirens get closer, but I don’t know how much time we’ve got. I open his door, kick it back, try not to flashback—you’re not going to flashback to the attack, don’t think about the attack, don’t think about anything, God dammit, KC don’t do this—for a moment, before I blink, Robert is wearing camouflage, desert hues. I shake it out. I get it from my memory, then take a look at the dashboard.

“Listen, I’m going to do something incredibly stupid and try to kick it off of you,” I explain. He doesn’t have time to process it, because I grasp onto the top of the car and kick at the dash with both of my legs. Something cracks in my ankle, but I ignore it. It creaks, then almost gives way.

“It’s looser—“

I get on my hands and knees, push up my sleeves, and reach up underneath the steering console. I can feel it searing my fingertips, my wrist, then let out a string of curses as I pull at his leg.

Somehow, although I can’t quite feel my hand, he wiggles free and limps towards safety. I ignore the pain in my wrist, and lean in one more time to the car to snatch up what looks to be a laptop bag. The sizzling increases, and I see open flame. It’s inching too close for comfort, and I’m afraid it’s going to cause a helluva lot more problems for me if I stay.

I scramble to my feet, limping away from the car right before the fire hits the gas tank. Naturally, it doesn’t explode, but it for sure catches fire right where Robert was. The trio of cars look like scrap metal, but there’s no one else inside.

I hold my breath, because it’s just making me dizzy. I should be able to move. It looks like the damn attack. All I can see is the bombed out houses.

I limp to Robert, sitting on the curb, and hand him the bag I grabbed. He warily looks from me, to the bag, and back.

“Thank you. You saved me, you saved this… all my work on my dissertation is on here, I would have had to start over. Thank you…”

I sink down to the sidewalk, holding out my arm. God, it stings. Shit. It doesn’t look too serious, but enough to warrant someone looking at it. Everything stings. I hold my hand close to my chest, and my shoulder throbs. This one is a different wound—this one is an old pain. A 45 caliber bullet doesn’t heal quite right, especially in the left side of my chest.

The sirens get louder, and so do the sounds of explosions in my ears. I try to fight it off, I try to do everything to make it go away as the fire and police departments arrive, but it’s no use. It’s no use.

I’m in Chicago. I’m not overseas. This isn’t Iraq. This isn’t Afghanistan. This isn’t—this isn’t the attack—

The flashback starts and I know I’m in a flashback, but it’s like a nightmare I can’t get out of. I’m not technically supposed to be in combat. I’m an attaché, an added member to the squad as part of the cultural support team to talk to women in the Middle East when they couldn’t talk to our soldiers but someone has opened fire.

“Lieutenant, heads up!” Someone tosses me an M16. When I check the magazine I’ve got at least most of the rounds left, I don’t take the time to count.

The gunfire arcs over my head, landing some feet in front of me, but I make myself as small as I can. But I’ve got a better way to shoot back now. Just as I’m about to move out of my cover to shoot back, someone calls for me. It’s distant. It’s not here. It’s somewhere else. It’s my last name, from an unfamiliar voice.

I try to blink, I try to push it out, but it remains there like a haze. I close my eyes, I try to get past it, but it doesn’t work. The gunfire—is it here, or there? Or somewhere else, not happening but happening in the past?

And here it comes, the dissociation. Everything goes dark, like I’m moving down a dark tunnel, and I lose feeling in my hands and feet.

Hands grab for me, urgently, and I try not to push them away but I fight away. It’s instinct. I don’t want to be taken anywhere, I don’t want to move, I want to get the hell out of this desert—

“Ma’am? I’m Officer Burgess, what’s your name?”

The pavement somewhere beneath my feet wavers, and it blinks into sand and then back to asphalt, flashing like something out of a horror movie. I lean on my knees, trying not to make a scene but trying to regain my sense of self. Just breathe. Breathe.

“Cavanagh, ma'am. Captain—I mean… Kaitlyn Cavanagh.”

The voice continues. I try to focus on it, but I still hear gunfire.

“Ma’am, there are some paramedics here that want to take a look at you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I respond quickly. She tries to help me up, and I grasp her arm, tighter than I probably should. She leads me away from the crowd of people, not asking questions.

She leaves me wordlessly with a small blonde paramedic, who soon introduces herself as “hi, my name is Sylvie” followed by the question “what happened”, and me struggling to find the words to say.

“The village—“ I start, then immediately correct myself. “The car crash. I meant the car crash. The middle car, he, uh, was stuck—couldn’t get out. Hurt my ankle, I think, and cut up my wrist.”

I cringe and I think we both know it wasn’t one of those wounds. She peers at me, and I feel the sweat rolling down my face. I can’t control it. God, it throbs. I’m not sure what hurts worse. I shiver. I shouldn’t be shivering. Not here. God, where am I?

“Ma’am, can you tell me where you are right now?”

I can’t say Afghanistan. That’s not where I am. I’m not positive where I am right now. I fight the urge to pull away.

“Look at me, Cavanagh,” she says, eyeing my jacket. “Where are you?”

“Chicago,” I finally answer. “I can’t remember… I can’t remember the street. I just need… I need to go.”

“Your heart rate is through the roof,” she says quietly. “What’s your name?”

“Cavanagh.”

“Your whole name,” she whispers calmly.

It’s not a question I’m used to. “Kaitlyn. KC.”

“KC, you need to breathe slowly. Take some deep, slow breaths for me, okay?”

I’ve been trying, but it’s not working. I’m just dizzy. I should be doing something. I should be doing something to help—

“You’re helping right now by staying right here with us, alright?”

Did I say that out loud? I must have. I try to breathe, but the more I do it, the more I start to feel my own limbs.

“Kaitlyn, I think you’re experiencing a flashback. Has this happened to you before?” She asks.

I can feel myself nod, until the haziness lifts a little, just enough for me to start focusing my eyes.

“What can you use to help ground yourself? What do you do?”

“I… I don’t know. They’re new. I just got home… I’ve been discharged… I got home today. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know.”

“I'm not going to leave you,” she says immediately. “I'm not. I'm right here with you.”

“Where are we?”

“Michigan Avenue.” Sylvie says. “It’s about three in the afternoon.”

“I just got home,” I say, my mouth dry. “I just got home, dammit. I just made it back.”

“And you just saved that man's life,” Sylvie says.

“Someone had to,” I say.

Sylvie stays by my side until I can focus enough to look at her directly. She’s a pretty, slight blonde who could have done what I did overseas: quiet and unassuming, but probably deadly if given the training.

“How long did you serve?” She asks, handing me a water bottle and looking at my wrist.

“Since 2008,” I said, peeling at the label instead of drinking it.

“Thank you,” she offers very quickly.

I look at her, taken aback, and she looks as surprised as I feel. “Oh. You’re the first person to tell me that.”

A pair of firefighters—probably rescue squad—stroll up to the ambulance, and I immediately jump to my feet, but then nearly buckle. Maybe I did do something stupid to my ankle.

“Woah! Hold up. You okay?”

One of the firefighters grab me to stabilize me.

“I kicked at the dashboard to get him out.” The less eye contact I make, the better, but they keep speaking.

“You did a helluva good thing out here today,” the other one says. I finally just look up at the two of them—one is a good looking Mexican, with ‘firefighter’ emblazoned on his helmet. He’s the one who caught me, and continues to hold my arm loosely—while the incredibly good looking one with blue eyes sports ‘Lieutenant’ on his.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You probably want to get that checked out,” the firefighter mentioned, giving Sylvie a head nod.

“We might be booked,” she says.

“His name is Robert,” I say quickly.

“Why don’t you come over here?” The firefighter says. “Lieutenant, I can talk to the Chief to see if we can’t drop her off at Gaffney.”

“Sure, Cruz,” the lieutenant says, dragging my arm around his waist. With all his gear, it’s a little complicated, but we make it work as he takes most of my weight. It’s not hard for him, that’s for sure. “You just get home?”

"Today," I say, but I sound hollow. I feel hollow.

“What’d you do?” He asks, letting me sit on the edge of the back of the firetruck.

I’m answering before I can even stutter. “I was part of the Cultural Support Team. 1st Squadron, 75th Cavalry.”

“And that means…?”

I clutch tightly to my nearly empty water bottle, wishing I had more, but also unaware I had drank it. “I spoke to the Iraqi and Afghani women when they weren’t allowed to talk to men. It helped us get some valuable intelligence.”

“Damn,” he says under his breath. “You see combat?”

“Do you want the official report, or the unofficial report?”

He chuckles. “I’m Severide. Kelly Severide.”

“Kaitlyn Cavanagh.”

“Yeah, well, you’re definitely from the South Side.”

“Canaryville,” I say. It’s my turn to chuckle, until Cruz returns with my pack and permission from the Chief to take me to Gaffney.

The ride is short, but quiet, even sitting in the back of the fire truck. A bit unconventional, but I guess they deemed me important enough to get a personal drop off.

Kelly slips me his card into my pack as I get helped off the truck. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

And they’re off. It’s enough to be home, but I can’t believe this is happening on the first day back. I’ve dealt with enough of this shit before, why can’t it change now?

In fact, all I want to do is sleep. That would be ideal, but before long I’m sitting in a damn room, on a gurney, waiting for someone to see me. It’s probably just a sprained ankle, and maybe some burns and cuts on my arms, and then I can move on with my life.

Through the open door, I hear a conversation, so I lean over to peek better. Two men who stand at almost the same height speak low, closely to each other. One, the ginger, wears burgundy scrubs, while the other, the dark haired one, has a leather jacket and a badge around his neck.

“Why the hell are you still here?” The doctor looks down at the chart in his hands. I hear his voice, and I feel like I've gone back in time. I have to focus on my breathing, because for the first time since all this went wrong, I finally feel like the universe is giving me a break.

They're both back in town. They're both here. Chicago might be home again.

“C’mon, Will—” Jay starts, but he notices that Will isn’t paying attention. He's reading over the chart quickly, still in shock.

"What's wrong? Who is it?"

"Kate," Will says. "She's back in town. When the hell did she get back?"

"Holy shit, really?"

He starts towards the door, almost tripping over himself, so I lean back like I’m not eavesdropping. When he looks up at me, it all clicks when I see him grin. “Will Halstead.”

For the first time since I got back, I feel a slight sense of relief sink through my bloodstream.

“Kate Cavanagh. Holy… what are you doing here? What happened? How…?” He sets down the chart, crossing his arms over his chest and just taking me in. His eyes rake over my desert camo.

“I didn’t know you were in Chicago, Ginger,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“And I didn't know you were either,” he scoffs, ignoring my derogatory nickname. “When did this happen?”

“Today,” I say. In the doorway, the other Halstead harrumphs. He still looks to me like the teenager who tried to get me to stop doing illegal things.

“What the hell?” Jay says. It’s a hero’s welcome for sure. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back? I just talked to you in, like...."

"June," I say. "It was June."

"That long ago?" Jay seems to breathe. It's been longer for Will, and I can see it in his face. Actually, as he looks at my chart, I see the excitement drain from his face. He doesn't say anything, but I know he's reading the pages of my recent wounds. He realizes why I'm back. A moment of silence drops between the three of us until Will breaks it, albeit awkwardly.

“So, uh, what happened here?”

After I slip off my jacket, I show him my arm—the burn spans from the middle of my arm to my wrist, the cuts on the other, then gesture to my ankle.

“What did you do?” Jay asks.

“Pulling a guy from a crashed car.”

“You were at the six car pileup on the Mile?” Will asks, already looking at my arm. It doesn’t take him long to start wrapping it up.

“Yeah, he got taken here, I think. Had his leg stuck in the dashboard, I kicked it out. Car burst into flames. The usual.”

“Oh, just the normal Saturday for you?” Jay says, barely smirking.

“You should be used to my deadpan by now. You only spent 20 years listening to it.”

I cringe, glaring at Will, who messes with my ankle.

“Yeah, you sprained it, but it’s pretty bad. I’ll wrap it up, and you’ll have to be on crutches for a week or so.”

“Really? Really, Will. How many times did I save your ass when we would run from the cops on Friday nights? You know I can’t handle crutches.”

“Hey. Hey, shh,” he puts his finger to his lips and points to his brother.

“You think I’m going to be scared by little brother over here?”

“Dammit, why am I even still here?” Jay muses, pulling his weight off the door frame and trying not to laugh.

“You really shouldn’t be in here anyways,” Will comments. “Doctor patient confidentiality.”

“He can be in here. I’m cool with it.”

Jay smiles, looking down at the tile floor, before speaking again. I feel it too. It's like nothing changed in the almost eight years since we've all parted ways. “So, are you home for good?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I say. I’ve got no plan. I don’t even know what I’m going to do.

“Where are you living? At least tell me you’ve got a place to stay,” Will says.

“I can stay in my storage facility? That’s about it.” They know about my estrangement from my family. Mom and Sikandar moved to Seattle after I graduated UIC, while dad and Cindy, they moved south, and didn’t quite approve of me entering the Army, so consequently, I haven’t spoken to them in almost eight years. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

Will begins to open his mouth, but Jay speaks first. “We’ve got room.”

“You two live together? How cute.” I say, yawning.

“That way, I can make sure you’re doing okay,” Will says, nodding at Jay like he made a good call. “I can check on that wrist of yours. I’ll be off shift in an hour.”

“So does this mean we’re getting the band back together?” I ask, and Will immediately cracks up. Jay at least chuckles. We lock eyes, and we both see it: that flicker of light that threatens to go out. His smile fades a little when we do, and he nods, looking at the floor.

“KC and the Halstead Boys, together again,” Will says, snatching up my chart. “Take a nap, or something. I don’t think anyone’s going to kick you out.”

“Let’s hope not. I don’t know if this city can handle another homeless veteran.”

“Dear Lord, Kate. You have no chill,” Jay says.

“What the hell does that mean?”

I’m asleep before Will even shuts the door.


	2. Would you be good enough to take me home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flashbacks come for KC in full force, but so do the Halsteads in trying to rehabilitate KC, including findiing her an apartment and getting her a job interview—with Al Olinsky's help.

**December 30, 2015**  
0154 Hours  
1458 W 18th St APT 3, Pilsen, Chicago  
**KC**

I stare down the barrel of a gun. It’s a .45 caliber. I can tell just by looking at it, plus with its proximity, it’s hard to miss.

But I can’t move, because I’m pinned by the collapsed house. We all are. Too many have died already, but it’s been at least a day and a half by the way the sun’s traveled. No one’s found us yet except for the soldier standing in front of me. Taliban, ISIS, I don’t know. I can’t breathe, because it’s all dust. I can’t see because of the sunlight. But I can for sure see that gun barrel.

“Please,” I try, in Pashto, knowing it’s probably futile, but I say it anyway. “These women need help. Please.”

The gunshot goes off before I can get out my last plea. I’m pinned, the bullet has slipped through my shoulder like I’m a piece of fabric. I try to press a hand to the bleeding, to try to stop it, and there’s more machine gun fire as I start to black out.

“Captain Cavanagh!” A screaming voice. “KC! Kate—“

That’s not the right voice for the memory. No, it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one yelling for me.

“Kate, you need to wake up, dammit!”

The bright sun and sand fade, everything starts to become duller. It threatens to become duller, but I can’t seem to break it. I feel my grip slipping on my shoulder, I hear the women screaming behind me. I clutch onto my sense of reality but I’m slipping. I’m slipping—

I’m sitting in front of the toilet, on the floor, and I’m panting. I’m taking air way too quickly, and I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t stop seeing that shooter. I see the gun; I see the sun—

I launch myself at the toilet and I know this isn’t the first time I’ve puked tonight. My throat burns, and nothing’s coming up. I do that for longer than I care to, then realize someone’s holding back my hair.

At least I’m not hyperventilating still, but I shake, wiping the sheen of sweat from my head. I emptied the entire contents of my last couple hours out in a few minutes, I assume, and nothing feels good about it. I lean back against the wall, still shivering, until whoever has been aiding me returns with a fleece blanket and wraps it around my shoulders.

Jay takes a knee in front of me, his face halfway between concerned and sympathy, like you have bad news to tell someone but want to keep optimistic about it.

“What happened?” I asked, still dazed.

“You want to go to the couch? Might be more comfortable.”

I nod, and he helps me up, nearly carrying me into the living room. I see the clock; it’s nearly 2 a.m. and I see no traces of Will.

When I slip back down onto the couch, Jay sits down next to me, shedding his boots, leather jacket, and badge on a ball chain. He’s very deliberate in his actions, letting me sit and try to re-calibrate. I focus on the grain of the wood of his coffee table, but it wavers in and out.

“When did you get in?”

He takes another look at me, then goes to the fridge before answering. “About five minutes ago.” Jay tosses me a red Gatorade bottle. “Drink that.”

“Good thing it isn’t orange,” I mutter, cracking it open.

“You think I’d forget your vendetta against orange Gatorade? Hey, it may have been a decade, but I could never forget that night.”

I chuckle, wiping my mouth after drinking half of the bottle and trying not to shiver. “At least we figured out that I could pass as twenty-one at sixteen.”

He sits down next to me, shaking his head. “I wish I could tell you I couldn’t drink tequila again, but that would make me a liar.”

Same old Jay, how many years later. “How bad is it?” I ask quietly.

He takes a beat to answer. “Pretty bad. You were hyperventilating on the bathroom floor when I came in. Couldn’t get you to snap out of it, then you puked, then you hyperventilated, then you puked, and now we’re here.” He takes a long drink from his bottle of beer.

“Thanks for holding my hair back,” I manage.

“I’m not going to ask for details,” he says, not looking at me and instead looking straight ahead. “But if you need to talk, if you need to talk about anything, I’m here for you.”

“I know. Jay, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m expected to do. I can’t do this. I’m on my own, I don’t have a family, I don’t have a job…”

He waits for me to drift off, almost hysterically, then glares at me like I’m stupid. I know the look. He’s about to drop some truth.

“Look, Kate. You can stay here as long as you need to. You’ll find a job. And don’t even try to sell me the bullshit that you’ve got nobody. You’ve been a Halstead almost as long as Will has, and honestly? Longer than me. We’ve got you. I’ve got you, alright?”

I nod, swallowing hard and capping my Gatorade. I see his eyes drop to my shoulder. My tank top doesn't hide the gnarly scar. He looks at me expectantly, then I toss him the remote, pulling the blanket back over my shoulder.

“Spike was running _Boondock Saints_ tonight.”

He nods in respect, quickly turning to the channel. I lean against him, and he puts his arm around me. Soon, I stop shivering, and soon, I fall back asleep.

* * *

**January 1, 2016**  
0843 Hours  
1458 W 18th St APT 3, Pilsen, Chicago  
**KC**

It’s been six days since the Halsteads took me in, and, after investigation into their schedules, I’ve determined Will should be finishing his holiday night shift and coming in shortly, while Jay has a day off.

It had taken some preparation, but I think for once a master plan of mine is working: I finally hear stirring from the other room as I serve up the bacon and sausages. Since Jay didn’t seem to find the need for a kitchen table, I’ve utilized his kitchen island, and the spread is enormous—I’ve got white pudding, baked beans, hash browns and boxty, although it’s a bit redundant; and a pile of fried eggs. I did go a little off-road with the pancakes I pull off my makeshift griddle.

Jay nearly falls against the door frame of his room, still rubbing his eyes, and I see the kid I grew up with once more. I hobble, trying not to put too much weight on my ankle, to the coffee maker and make sure it’s brewing a lot of coffee.

He holds a hand to his forehead, then gestures to the destruction I’ve wrought.

“I didn’t know I had this much food in my apartment.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you get groceries? Is that boxty?” His tired eyes grow wide, and he stops in his tracks, his hands in the air like he's frozen. “It’s the Cavanagh spread. This is happening, and it’s happening right now. Did you get the most vital ingredient?”

I manhandle the bottle of Bailey’s in response. He lets out a whine of what I assume is excitement when the door opens. Will looks frazzled, but like he’s about to say something.

“I could smell baked beans from—oh my God.”

“Yeah, man, sit down, because this—” he gestures to the island again, “This is happening.”

“Cavanagh spread?” He asks in reverence. “On New Year’s Day? Is there—”

I stop pouring an exorbitant amount of Irish crème into my cup when Jay gives me a look.

“I deserve this.”

"Is there a catch to this?” Jay mutters.

Will throws down his bag and his coat as quickly as possible, pulls me into a tight hug and gives me a kiss on my cheek. I glare at him and try to wipe it off, but he just grins at me instead.

“You disappoint me. Why does there always have to be a catch?” I whisper over my coffee cup. I nearly sputter. I put in too much Baileys, but fuck if I’ll admit that.

“You’re right. She’s plotting something,” Jay says, squinting at me. “What do you want from us?”

“You’re kind of letting me live here,” I say.

Both of them do that thing where they look at me in silence until I crack.

“I just want to know what you guys have been up to. It’s been a while. C’mon.”

Will gets a second double stack of pancakes. Must have been a rough shift. “I was in the Sudan for a while.”

“Had a plastic surgery practice in New York,” Jay adds.

“Oh, boob jobs for Ginger Spice?”

“Why does everyone go to the boob jobs,” He says, humorously frustrated. “I came back here, started working at Gaffney in the ER. Nothing spectacular. And will that nickname ever die?”

I ignore his nickname comment. He should know better. “Women?” I point my fork at him. I’ve always been weirdly protective of Will. He may be the oldest, but as the younger of the Halstead/Cavanagh Irish twins, I still felt the need to make sure he was okay.

“Many?” He tentatively answers. “Nothing stuck, though.”

I internally grumble, but let it go, turning my fork towards Jay.

“Rangers,” he says. “Chicago PD. About three years ago, joined Intelligence.”

I go back and count on my fingers. “You just summed up several years in nine words.”

He shrugs, sipping his spiked coffee.

“Last time we saw each other, you were on leave and Will was in med school, so I’m at least owed that,” I say, pushing my food around on my plate. They’ve eaten more than enough, so I let myself stay not hungry. “Any women, Jay?”

“Are you interested?” He says, raising an eyebrow at me.

“There are so many wrong things in that statement,” I say, shaking my head. “Wrong. Gross. We’re basically family. Why would you say that?”

“Because he knew you would react like that,” Will says.

“Anyway," I mutter. "Answer the question, Halstead."

“There is a girl, though,” Will offers, and Jay punches his older brother in the arm.

“Oh? Oh. Do tell.”

“His partner,” Will mouths, and I lean onto the one part of empty space on the island.

“Well, this is scandalous. What’s her name?”

“Erin Lindsay,” Jay says begrudgingly, like a kid who got his hand stuck in the candy jar.

“Will I meet her?”

“No!” He immediately exclaims. “Not happening.” He turns to Will. “We need to get her a job. Or an apartment. Or something.”

“Are you kicking me out for asking too many questions? After I cooked for you, Halstead?”

“This was all a ruse,” He says, wielding his coffee cup like a weapon as he stands up.

“Go watch cartoons, Jay. They’ll make you feel better.”

He flips me off as he flops down on his couch, and I start cleaning up. Will starts helping me load the dishwasher, and, after a short bout of silence, speaks up.

“So, Jay told me about the other night.”

“What other night?” I ask innocently, wrapping up the leftovers to put them into Will and Jay’s stark fridge.

“The flashback,” he says. I straighten, I try to brush it off, but he continues. “I’ve got someone you could talk to about it. Over at the hospital. Dr. Charles?”

“I’m fine,” I say, knowing I’m not fine as soon as I say it. “I’m fine. I just need to settle in. I need my own apartment and—and I need my own job, and then I’ll be fine.”

He sighs. He knows this conversation is over, but I know Will. He'll push when he finds the right moment. “Will you let me know if you’re ever not fine?”

I stop handing him plates, and he watches me, waiting for an answer.

“Yes. Yes, Will. I will let you know if I’m ever not fine.”

* * *

**January 4, 2016  
1221 Hours  
****1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M,** **University Village, Chicago  
****KC**

Will helps me up the last flight of stairs, and I know after six apartments, I am done with this bullshit. The representative keeps talking, but I look around the place on my own: I like the location, although a job would be nice first; it’s fairly centralized to anything I could be doing at this point. It’s close to Will and Jay, it’s in my price range…

“This one has two closets!” Will says; at this point, he’s just making fun of everyone with his fake enthusiasm.

“I’ll take this one,” I say decisively. I’m just done looking, and this will work. It can’t be permanent. I’ll find something better later. “When can I move in?”

The answer is ‘immediately’, so as soon as I sign my papers, Will seems genuinely amped and ready to help me bring my stuff—which is so lovingly placed in a storage facility, number 105 in West Town. By the mid afternoon, we were in business.

“I seriously regret buying you that extra shot of espresso,” I say, limping back up the stairs on our third trip to the top floor. We’re nearly done with the little stuff, and I know Jay will make his appearance just in time to sit down on the floor with a beer.

“Listen, I have three days off and technically only have to sleep once for it to be legal,” he says, dropping one box in the center of the kitchen. “Plus, when you’re all set here, I’ll have a place to sleep when Jay kicks me out!”

“To bang his partner girlfriend?” I say, handing him a full glass of red wine. I sip mine, then chug a little bit until Will gives me a glare.

“It’s like a sister wife,” he comments. “Regardless, you’re closer to the hospital than our apartment. God, I need to find my own place."

“Let me drop this ultimatum,” I begin without a second thought. “You provide a futon or bed for the second bedroom, you get your own key and maybe a drawer in a dresser.”

He grins widely. “And to think, we were so worried about us moving too fast.”

I mime throwing a lamp at his head, and he doesn’t even duck.

“You are so awful to me, Kate. Seriously. Wait, remember that one time—“

“Probably.” I keep unpacking boxes and leaving their contents on the floor while drinking quicker than I probably should.

“—shut up. Remember that time we jumped the fence at Fuller Park and skinny dipped?”

“—and Jay wouldn’t do it, yes?”

“You literally left us for dead," Will says, frustrated. He was the one who brought it up.

“The cops were coming. We had to scatter for our own self-preservation.”

“You took my clothes!”

I chuckle once, and as I keep chuckling, I realize I can’t stop. I don’t know if it’s the wine or whether I’m just tired or whether I needed to laugh.

At the back door, there’s a knock, and I’m not used to it; I yell for whoever it is to come in. Jay pokes his head in, followed by a very pretty brunette.

“Who told you where I lived?” I say, using my wine glass as a pointer. At first, Jay disappears around the corner, then returns with the wine bottle and pours the majority of the bottle into my glass. “Okay, you can stay. Who’s your friend? Oh!” Will gently helps me to my feet while both of us are holding our own glasses of red liquid, which is probably not the best idea. “You must be Erin.”

She slowly looks at Jay, speaking volumes with her eyebrows and not her words.

“It was Will,” he says quickly, pointing at his brother.

The hint of a smirk turns up her lips as she holds out her hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you, Kate,” she says with the tone of somebody who had also already knew the other’s name.

“I’m sorry, it’s still a mess in here,” I say, looking around my living room. I got Will to carry up at least one armchair, so I could at least sleep. It’s not much, but it’s doable.

“How much more d’you have to bring up?” Jay asks, looking around my smallish apartment critically.

“The big stuff, but it’s still on my trailer downstairs,” I say. “I’m going to have to get some big dudes to do that.”

“How many big dudes?” He asks.

“Single ones," I say, my voice muffled, due to it being projected around a wine glass.

“How drunk is she?” Jay says, pointing at me and looking at Will. I’m not drunk. Not in the least.

“Sadly, not,” Will says behind me. I throw a book on Pashto at him without looking, but he manages to catch it.

“Would you be willing to cook?” Jay asks. He still knows my strengths.

“I can be?”

“I’ve got Ruzek and Olinsky bringing up the rest of your shit. Erin’s going to help you—” he stops dead in his tracks, looking from Erin to me and back. “This was a bad idea. I take it back.”

“Too late, Halstead,” Erin says, walking backwards towards me. “Kate and I are going to have a long talk.”

“This is going to happen sooner or later,” he sighs, tossing Erin his keys. “Don’t let her drive. Don’t let her drive ever, actually. That’s a house rule.”

“10-4,” Erin says, spinning the car keys in her hand.

I begrudgingly set down my wine on the counter top and grab my coat to follow Erin, who jogs down the stairs. It actually feels nice to not have someone trying to help me—I use the railing to help myself jump down the flights.

Outside, in front of the apartment building, two vastly different men fight over the best way to pull out my couch out of the truck and up the stairs.

“Al, I’m not walking up backwards. You know I can’t do it—”

“I’m not doing it either.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

Erin makes sure I’m following, then yells at the pair.

“Hey! You sound like a married couple!”

The elder man, dressed in dark colors and a black beanie, turns around and glares at Erin. His salt and pepper beard makes him look like a grandpa, but something tells me he could kick my ass and I would thank him.

The younger, though, huffs loudly at Erin; he appears clean cut like Jay, but something tells me he’s got a rough streak, too. I think it’s the flannel. “He started it!”

“I started it?” The elder—Al, I assume—says, turning back to the other guy. “I started it. What are you, ten?”

“Boys, stop fighting. Detective Alvin Olinsky—“ She points to Al. “And Officer Adam Ruzek.”

Al gives me a single, silent head nod, while Adam gives me a little wave.

“Kate Cavanagh, Jay’s friend. We’ll be back.”

“Cutting out so early?” Al says.

“Getting food,” Erin says, walking backwards and giving Al an impromptu salute before unlocking Jay’s car.

“They seem pleasant,” I say, getting into the passenger’s seat.

“Al and Ruzek? They’re alright,” she comments, then leaves the conversation at that. I don’t push for more, and soon, I feel her gaze on me as we head down Roosevelt towards the grocery store.

“You’re not gonna ask?”

I don’t even look at her when I speak. “About what?”

“Anything, really.”

“Why? I don’t need more details. You’re all Jay’s friends. That’s enough.”

She harrumphs. “It’s not usually enough for people.”

“I don’t like sharing details either,” I say, finally looking at her. I feel like I get a very rare smile from her.

We run into Jewel-Osco, and I decide the best meal to make for four men moving my furniture is spaghetti. Within a half hour, we’re headed back up to my new apartment with beer, wine, and food to be started.

When we walk back in, though, I’m already shocked. The truck was gone outside, but I didn’t expect it be done so quickly—Adam even hangs up some of my photos with those sticky Command hooks so they don’t make holes in the drywall. I’m pretty positive Will is alphabetizing my books in my shelf.

A collective cheer makes me back up nearly into Erin, and I set down the beer on my coffee table. All four of them stop in their tracks to retrieve one of their own.

“Thank God I got out of the way. Good Lord. They’re like piranhas.”

“Just wait until they eat,” Erin says, pouring herself some wine. “You’re going to lose your appetite.”

I look around my apartment, all put together, and I realize I don’t care how they arranged it. It’s perfect. Everything’s perfect, and as I start to cook, they continue the final touches—these strangers, these people I don’t know and have never heard of, dropping everything to help me settle into this city I left so long ago.

I never expected to come back. I never thought I had anything to come back to.

Will holds up a stack of books, while Ruzek rifles through them. “You’ve got like, thirty-seven books on the Middle East,” he mentions. “Any reason?”

They look at me expectantly. I’m not sure what to say at first, and Jay saves me.

“Her stepdad’s an Afghan Muslim,” he says. “She spent what, seven and a half years?—overseas with the Army.”

Al nods in respect, and I realize he served, too. Ruzek looks stoic. They all have their ways. I’m glad for it, but I want it to end very quickly.

“What’d you study?” Adam asks, still interested, it seems.

“History. Minored in international studies and religious studies.”

“I heard they’re looking at UIC for an associate professor in history,” Al says, pointing at me. “I’ve got someone in human resources over there. You lookin’ for a job?”

I nearly drop my spoon into the spaghetti sauce. “I graduated from UIC. Hell yes, I am.”

Al literally pulls out his phone and goes into the other room. I didn’t expect him to do it then, but it’s happening. Jay gives me a grin, and Will looks giddy, like they know for a fact there’s no way I could leave Chicago now.


	3. The lines remain and they will never be gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KC aces her job interviews, seeing a friendly face to push her through. After stopping at House 51, Jay forces her out into the wild of Chicago.   
-  
Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz knows he's a vital part of the team looking for the serial killer running raids throughout Little Italy. When he first sees Jay's friend at the district, though, he's distracted for the first time in months, and asks Jay to set up a meet cute.   
-  
That meet cute, though, ends awkwardly when KC has a flashback.

**January 13, 2016**  
**1537 Hours**  
**1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago  
** **KC**

Interview number two, and they’re moving quickly. I hope that Al’s contact keeps pulling for me. I don’t know if his contact means a friend or a confidential informant, and I can’t bring myself to care. If it works, it works.

I finish pinning my hair back in its bun, throwing in an extra bobby pin just in case.

“No. No, Kate, let your hair down. You’re not in the Army anymore. Looks better down.”

Will stumbles from my guest room slash office, holding his comforter still around him. He shakes his head, giving me a look I remember from elementary school that shows his complete disgust.

“What do you suggest I do with my hair?” I ask with more sarcasm than usual. So quite a lot, I realize. He grabs for the cup of coffee I left on the counter for him, smiling, then sleepily turning back to me. “Unpin it.”

“No.”

“Would you listen to me for once? Please?”

I harrumph, then start pulling bobby pins out until the bun I’m used to putting it in disappears.

“There.”

“There? No. This is bad. It looks awful.”

He trudges over to me, takes a bobby pin, twists part of my hair back and pins it. “There. Leave it down.”

“Are you okay? Are you sick? Are you dying? Who are you?”

He flips me off, nearly chugging his coffee. I grab my bag and my coat, holding my arms outstretched.

“How’s this?”

Will glares at me. “That is literally the most boring outfit I’ve seen in my life.”

“It’s a grey suit!”

“Exactly! You’re better than this.”

I groan at my ceiling, and as I do, Will slips into my bedroom. “Where’s your jewelry?”

“On the dresser?”

“You have literally nothing of value.”

“I was in the Army for nearly a decade.”

“Oh! What about this!”

He returns holding a chunky gold and red rhinestone necklace.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” He already pulls my hair back, hooking it on. I have no choice in the matter anymore.

“Unbutton a button,” he says, circling me. I do, and I adjust my shirt collar and the necklace. I don’t really disagree—he’s right. It adds a bit of professional flair.

“There. Go. Get a job.”

“Shut the fuck up, Halstead!”

“There’s the Kate I know.”

As soon as I get to campus, I’m ushered into another committee room. I’ve made it to round two, and I notice a new number of people attending the interview—there’s a face in the back that I recognize not from the last interview, but from my first day back in Chicago.

“Robert?”

He nods, giving me a wide grin. “Robert Cutler. Associate professor of psychology.”

“You work here?” I say, exhaling loudly. Consider that karma.

“I asked to sit in on your second interview. Provide my insight on what I know about you.”

I’m going to sink this job.

It’s an easy interview, and they offer to give me a tour of campus, and I ask for only the things new since 2008—since I had been there. Only once did they mention my service record, and after my short answer, I assume they didn’t want to bring it up again. They also enjoyed my answer to “how soon can you start”, which was immediately. I don’t think they understand I’m unemployed. Am I ready to teach? Hell if I know, but it’s better than nothing, and the job would cover some of the Middle East. I pray to everyone’s God this goes through. If it does, I owe Al Olinsky.

* * *

**January 13, 2016**  
**1647 Hours**  
**Chicago Police Department, District 21**  
**Mouse**

If Olinsky doesn’t step away from my computer, I swear I’m going to lose my shit on him. He has no business even touching this computer. I mean, I think it’s him. It’s got to be him. I could probably run his prints. He’s either him or Ruzek. I’m still not positive. I’m sure I can figure it out, and then I can cut them off from any usage of my computer. Lord, this is uncalled for. I swear they change my settings just to mess with me.

“Mouse!”

I jump, and suddenly the entire bullpen is looking at me. Shit. Voight is giving me that look again. He wants something. Oh! The case. The map. I find it in the pile of papers I’ve got on my desk and stride up to the board.

“Here’s a map with each pinpointed location of the rapes and murders we think are connected to this guy,” I explain. They’re mostly in Little Italy. Timeline makes the attacks a nearly perfect spiral. Don't know if it's significant. Not my job. “Looking at the math, I would look in this area for the next attack. And it could occur as soon as tomorrow.”

“Good work, Mouse,” Voight mutters, and I’m dismissed. I try to hide my smirk, but Jay just slaps his hand on my shoulder as they all start suiting up for the next leg of the case. I hope I’m wrong about that timeline. Even an I.D. would be great. I don’t know what we could do to get that, but I don’t want to even think about it.

Ruzek calls out for Jay as he comes up the stairs, explaining someone’s here to see him. The clack of heels, but slow moving. I sneak a look as she approaches Jay: she's fairly tall, and with her short heels, she's practically the same height as Jay. I can see her grey suit under her black peacoat, and the only hint of color is a bright green scarf. She limps. When she pushes a lock of her brown hair behind her eyes, I get a better look at her face and I know she’s so out of my league, so I eavesdrop instead.

“Here are your car keys. Thanks for letting me borrow it. I’ll get something as soon as my first check comes in.”

“First check? Did you get the job?!” Jay asks, crossing his arms tightly. He does that when he gets too excited.

“Actually, I’ve started stripping. I thought it might give me the confidence I need to move on to bigger and better things.”

I’m hoping that’s sarcasm. I’m still trying to teach myself to recognize sarcasm, and it seems that way when Jay doesn’t quite laugh at her statement.

“Dammit, Kate, this is important. What are you going to be teaching?”

“Well, they’ve got me on the general education classes… Western Civ since 1648. Western Civ to 1648, so those would be fun. And Religion in Human Experience. I think they're going to try to hook me up with the ROTC program, see what I can do there. Still have all that Pashto.”

“How soon do you start?”

“Uh… Tuesday?”

“That’s... that's soon. Holy shit.”

“They wanted someone before the start of the semester,” she says, shrugging. “Guess I fit the bill.”

“Or Olinsky pulled some strings,” he scoffs. Olinsky hears his name, pokes his head out from the lounge.

“Hang on,” she mutters, walking past Jay towards Olinsky. Jay makes eye contact with me. I point at her back, and his stoic face changes to a sly smirk before I can even react.

“Got the job!” She says, immediately throwing a hug on Olinsky. He isn't sure what to do for a beat, but eventually hugs her back. They know each other? How do I not know her? Is Jay planning on introducing us? She’s too hot for you, Mouse. She’s out of your league, so stop hoping.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Olinsky says to her. “Jay, suit up. We’re headed out.”

“Got it. Hey, let me know when you’re around. I’ve got something to tell you. See you later, Kate.”

“Duty calls?”

“Duty calls.”

I know what he’s got to tell her. At least, what I think he’s got to tell her. The way it sounds, she got the job that one of the murder victims used to have—before she was raped and strangled.

She passes him, and they high five and swing down for the low five without looking. Damn. Color me impressed. Casually, of course. As she walks by my desk, she pushes her hair back again, like she's used to it being away from her face. As she does, she glances to me, giving me a slight smile before she disappears into the stairwell.

Out of your league, Mouse. Out of your league.

* * *

**January 18, 2016**  
**1709 Hours**  
**Chicago Police Department, District 21**  
**Mouse**

Son of a bitch. I hate nights like this. I used to have a social life, you know. I mean, I was also jumping from job to job, but that’s beside the point.

I pull another beer from my fridge under the tech desk, look at the security tapes rolling on my two monitors, then turn my attention to the t.v. on the wall.

The game’s almost over, and we’re still up two, but I refuse to shut it off.

“You find anything yet?”

I don’t turn to hear Jay’s voice. Instead, I hand him the beer I just opened and grab myself another.

“You think I’d still be down here if I did?”

Jay chuckles, then drinks long from his beer.

“Long day?”

“Long week.”

I shrug, holding onto my headphones. “Least the Hawks are winning.”

He stares at me for a minute. “You need a life if that’s the best thing you can think of.”

“Not all of us can date our partners like you.”

“Touché,” he adds, taking another long drink.

“Besides, I’ve got you, I’ve got a mini fridge stocked with beer, and I have these shitty security tapes that I’m probably going to listen to all night.”

“If we wrap up this case before the end of the week, we’re hitting Molly’s.”

“We hit Molly’s literally every weekend. I don’t know what kind of ultimatum you’re expecting here, but it’s not going to work.”

“I’m trying to give you an incentive, dude.”

“You’re going to have to up the incentive, then.”

He grumbles wordlessly. Once the time clock runs out and the Blackhawks win, I shut off the t.v. “I hate winter. There’s nothing on.”

“How many days ‘til spring traini—“

“44,” I say, not looking up.

“That’s… that’s just sad, man.”

Jay leans on the desk, watching the soundless feed. I try to stop tapping my fingers against the desk, but it doesn’t work. I try to distract myself, but I’ve only got one thing on my mind.

“So. That girl who came in toda—“

“Oh my God, dude, I knew this would happen,” he says rubbing his forehead.

“Knew what?! I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You think she’s cute, what’s her status, blah blah blah.”

“You were just telling me I needed a social life.”

“This is true,” he says, gesturing with the neck of his beer.

“So? Who is she?”

Jay leans back into the desk chair, watching me for a minute. He does look pretty damn tired, and I’ve seen him damn tired. Regardless, he wipes the smirk and takes another drink before speaking.

“Kaitlyn Cavanagh. Remember that op we pulled near Bagram? She came up with that."

"I remember you talking about her. _That's_ Kate?" I'm shocked. She's not what I expected. Not by a long shot— "Wait, Bagram?"

"It involved a cherry picker and a carton of eggs when we did it, but yeah. Grew up on the same street. Her, Will, and me used to run the neighborhood when we were kids. She just got back in town, we’ve been helpin’ her get back on her feet.”

“Back on her feet? What’s her story?”

“Jesus, Mouse, just look her up and I’m sure you can find all the info you need.”

“I’m not a creep, just tell me.”

He sighs. “Went to college, then spent seven and a half years in the Army.”

I spin casually towards Jay. She was in the Sandbox for almost eight years? Seriously. That's a damn long time.

“And she just got back?”

“Right after Christmas. Helped her get an apartment, Olinsky got her a job. She’s in for a while, I think.”

“Why’d she leave?” I ask quietly.

“Medical discharge.”

The silence that falls between us is only shattered by the sound of both of us finishing our beers.

“Her last mission was in Nangalam, I think.”

"She was stationed in the Korengal Valley?" I can't focus on the computers anymore. The thought of her—someone so far out of my league—served in the same places we did? Whatever she saw, she didn't deserve it.

"Around the same time as us, too," Jay confirms. "She kept going back in."

"You ever think about goin' back?" I ask. It comes out before I can stop it.

"No," Jay says shortly. "Not anymore."

I'm not so sure, and I think he hears it in my voice. But that's a chat for another day. I'm still thinking about her being in Nangalam. “Thirty klicks from Landigal.”

With that, he immediately shuts down and I regret mentioning it, but something looks promising on the computer screen, so I pull up my headphones. I rewind part of the security feed, and in the corner of my eye, I see him perk up.

“Clocked him,” I say, already typing up the license plate number on my other monitor. It starts running the search when Jay lays his hand on my shoulder.

“If we go out on Friday, I can convince her to show up. But you gotta do the work, alright? She’s always been hard to crack.”

There’s something unspoken between us, so I speak up. “She’s harder to crack now, isn’t she?”

I don’t see his nonverbal response, but I’m pretty sure I know.

* * *

**January 19, 2016**  
**1608 Hours**  
**Little Italy, Chicago**  
**KC**

The air bites against my throat, and it threatens to freeze my legs, but I force myself to keep running. They told me at Landstuhl to keep running, even if it was just a mile or two, just to keep building up my muscles again. To build up my heart, my lungs.

I shouldn’t be alive. I still shouldn’t, I remind myself. Not after that attack. Not after Nangalam. God, stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about that damn mission. Thinking about how you survived your first day of classes.

I turn up the volume on my headphones and keep running. It doesn’t make my ankle feel any better, but I know if I don’t, I’ll just feel worse.

I start back up Blue Island Avenue, trying to remember the exact route. I’m still too proud to use a map, but this area of town is still mostly unfamiliar to me.

I keep moving until I see a fire station. It says Engine Company 51. Wait. I know that Engine Company. I wonder if they’re on shift right now…

Before I realize it, I’m pulling out my earbuds and starting towards the open bay doors of the fire station. Even though it’s January, they’ve got one of them open, and a few guys sit at a table in the garage. Although he’s not in his gear, I recognize him and when he turns, I see his electric blue eyes.

“Kelly Severide? I don’t know if you remember me—“

“Cavanagh! Six car pileup Army girl!” He stands up quickly. I have a designation now? I guess that’s not a bad thing. He shakes my hand. “What brought you by?”

“Well, to say thank you, I guess. I was on a run and saw the firehouse and didn’t know if you were on duty.”

He nods, a smirk parting his lips. Damn, if he’s not good looking. I fumble with the ball chain of my dog tags briefly. I thought I tucked them into my shirt. They must have shifted. I don't have to wear them anymore, I remind myself.

“You’ve met Cruz, and this is Capp, and Tony,” he starts, and suddenly I’m waving to more firefighters, and Kelly starts ushering me towards the door—this wasn’t supposed to be this much of a production, what the hell—and the entire firehouse is full. Great. Just what I wanted.

“You met Sylvie,” he says, and I wave to her in the kitchen—“That’s Otis—“ a good looking guy my age with a serious mustache gives me a cheesy smile—“Gaby Dawson and Lieutenant Matt Casey—“ A Latina and a boy-next-door type—“Herrmann and Mouch.” Those two are the middle aged guys, with Herrmann looking like a tired father of twenty grown people, while the other barely looks up from the TV to address me. “This is Kaitlyn Cavanagh.”

And suddenly they’re all looking at me, and I feel like I should say something, but nothing’s coming to mind.

“I—well, I was at that six car pileup last month—"

“Yeah! Sylvie said you had just gotten home from overseas!” The guy called Herrmann says in this thick Chicagoan accent. Mine’s not that thick, is it?

“Oh, yeah. I got off the train and boom, accident.” They laugh as a collective, although I wasn’t trying to be funny. “Point is, I was on a run, and saw the fire house and thought I’d stop by and thank you,” I finish, pointedly looking at Sylvie. She knows the truth.

“Hey, we only had to do clean up duty,” Mouch adds. “You did the heavy lifting.”

“Admittedly, it was a stupid move,” I say. “I should have waited—“

“You did fine,” Otis says with a wave of his hand. “Besides, that guy would have been stuck in that car without you.”

I shrug, unable to say anything else.

“You served?” Gaby asks, without anything else, just the simple two word question. I knew I should have taken off my dog tags.

“Oh, yeah. Army Cultural Support Team. Almost eight years.”

It gets really quiet, until they all start looking around at each other and start applauding. They seriously start applauding. I don’t know how to take this. I don’t know how to…

Luckily, I don’t have to, because they all get silent at the sound of an alarm and then speaking. They’re all getting called out to a fire on Ashland.

Before they all scatter, Kelly slaps a hand on my back. “If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

As they move, Sylvie puts something down on the nearest table. "Seriously. If you need me, let me know."

I look down and take the card—it's got her phone number on it.

"Thanks. Go do your job," I say, giving her a smile as she leaves. I let them all do what they have to do and once it’s clear, I set back out on my run. My head’s a little clearer, to be honest. I’m never going to remember all of them, but I’ll do my best. They’re a great little family. I want something like that. I don’t know if I can ever have something like that.

As I’m musing, I hear a car slow down beside me and the window roll down. I keep moving until I hear Jay’s voice—

“Run, Forrest, run!”

I stop, I finally look at the car, and flip him off as he practically sticks his body out of the open window.

“You’re an asshole,” I say, and Erin in the driver's seat nods like I’ve dropped a truth bomb.

“How was your first day?"

"Better than I expected," I admit, but he doesn't seem to care too much. "Hey, Erin, we still on for boxing tomorrow?"

She just nods. Jay looks from her to me and back again.

"I don't like this," he says. "I don't like you two hanging out."

"Get used to it," I say. "She doesn't ask questions."

Erin just smirks, and Jay tries to change the subject.

"Hey, we’re going out on Friday," he says. Erin drives slow and keeps up with me as I walk.

“No, we’re not.”

“Dammit, you’re comin’ to the bar with me and Will.”

“Only if you’re buying me drinks. I have no money.”

“Yes, dammit, fine. Someone will buy you drinks.”

“I better not regret this decision.” I tell him, but he leans back into the car and rolls up his window. Fucking Halstead.

* * *

**January 22, 2016**  
**2035 Hours**  
**Molly's Pub, Chicago**  
**KC**

I’m already regretting this decision. I’ve never been a fan of big parties, I’ve never been a bar goer, and I know that drinking with the Halsteads is always a bad idea.

I’ve barely been back here for a month. I just got an apartment, and I just got a job. But Jay declared I shouldn’t have time to settle in, because he’s sure it would take entirely too long, and I needed to go out now. Luckily I could un-bandage my arms, but both still look a little gnarly under the low bar lights.

The place is packed when we get in there, and I feel like I’m in an episode of Cheers when they all call out for Jay and Will and Erin. I settle into a spot at the bar, and immediately I’m accosted by a pair of men—

“Cruz and Severide,” I say, nodding, trying to remember their names. “Hey. What a coincidence—“

“You don’t know?” Cruz starts. “This is a firefighter owned establishment,” he says proudly.

“Don’t mind him,” Kelly says, pushing him playfully. “Let me get you a drink. Yo, Herrmann!”

He turns, an eyebrow raised. “Yo, Severide! Don’t yell at me in my bar!”

“Whatever she’s getting, put it on my tab!”

When he looks at me, he immediately smirks. “Six car pileup Army girl!” Herrmann says emphatically. “Drinks are on the house for you!”

I glare at Jay. “Did you know this would happen?”

He gives me an innocent shrug. “I had a slight idea.”

“So is everyone in this bar a police officer or a fire fighter?”

“Or a Gaffney employee, yeah,” Will adds.

I’m going to need a hell of a lot more alcohol to survive this night. Luckily, Herrmann and Gaby keep me in good spirits. I excuse myself from Cruz—who I discover is named Joe—and Sylvie, who expressed her concern for my well being.

It’s too overwhelming. I find an empty part of the bar and pull off to the side, away from everyone else. Just breathe, KC.

Otis gives me a shot. He’s the one with the mustache, I remember. God, why are there so many Goddamn people here?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a guy talking to Jay—I know he's not a firefighter, so I try to place him from what I can see in my peripheral. I finally just look at him. Not quite what you would call classically good looking, but more my type than the rest of the beefcakes in this bar. Dark hair, swept back, a side smirk.

Wait… he’s the tech that was at the precinct last week when I dropped off Jay’s keys. I look away from both of them when I realize Jay’s pointing me out.

Of course. That’s what this was all about. Jay’s trying to set me up with one of his coworkers. Cute. Never going to work, but he's still adorable.

He slips onto the stool two down from my left, orders a beer, then adds a shot of whiskey to the order. I nod to Otis, and I know he’s making it double. I’ve gotten enough alcohol in me to actually strike up a conversation.

“That good of a day, huh?” I ask him.

He looks scared for a moment, then tries to recover. “Some days you just need an... an extra push.”

“I get you on that one. First time here, and let me tell you, the whole brotherly love can get a little intense.” I slip off my leather jacket, because the amount of people in here have started to make me that much warmer. That, or the alcohol.

“Not a cop, firefighter, or doctor?” He chuckles, picking up his shot.

“Professor, I guess.”

“Cheers to that,” he says, and we clink our shot glasses, downing them quickly. It burns a little going down, but it’s nothing my Irish blood can’t handle. He waves down Gaby for more shots.

“You from around here?” He asks, and I see him try to look at me subtly, but it doesn’t work.

“Canaryville,” I say.

“West Town for me,” he responds.

“Oh, I’ve broken into St. Boniface up there once.”

“You don’t seem the type to break in anywhere, to be honest,” he says, shifting to the bar stool next to me.

“Don’t you think that’s part of my charm?”

“Trust me when I say sometimes it’s better if you don’t look the part,” he adds.

“Are you telling me you’re a bit of a criminal too?”

He waves his hand back and forth, shrugging. “Mine are more of a technical sort.”

“Hey, it’s the smart ones you’ve got to watch out for.”

I realize I'm playing with my dog tags again and try to slip them away without catching his attention.

“So what really brings you to Molly’s?” He asks, swigging from his beer.

I finish off my rum and coke, gesturing with my empty glass. “Those two idiots at the other end of the bar?” Jay and Will are in a heated argument, gesturing wildly with their hands. “I grew up with them. But I’m sure your buddy Jay’s already told you that, right?”

He straightens, and he hunches closer to the bar, like his façade has been broken. He grins out of the side of his mouth, and I take notice how his bright blue eyes sparkle under the strings of lights they’ve got hanging on the ceiling.

“KC Cavanagh,” I say, extending my hand to him. He visibly perks.

“Greg Gerwitz. Well, Mouse.”

I squint. I know that name. “I remember Jay talking about you," I say, I realize, almost wistfully. "One of the times I called from Sandbox. I always wondered, who would pick the nickname Mouse?”

“Ah, well, it’s kind of a long story,” he starts, and I smile over his Chicago accent. Not as thick as the bartender’s—Herrmann?—but it’s enough for me to notice. “Actually, I think parts of it are classified…” He drifts in realization.

“I’ll live in wonder, then,” I add.

“So… the Halsteads.”

I shrug. “I could tell you horror stories.”

He chuckles, and he laughs for longer than I would expect from that statement, but it’s less annoying and more endearing. He picks up drink, and I clink mine against his.

“The joke nickname was KC and the Halstead Boys, but I couldn’t make Jay back up dance in my made up band. Will was up for it, though. Good old Ginger Spice.”

He snorts, nearly taking in beer. He laughs anyway.

“I swear I didn’t just try to kill you,” I say. “That’s not a very good first impression, is it?”

“Nah, you’re fine. That’s a pretty good first impression, actually. You forget, I work with cops.”

I turn sideways, leaning on the bar. He takes a second, and I know he’s surveying me in the low light. I did it to him, he might as well. He’s distracted, so I ask him what he does. He shakes his head, seemingly breaking from his thoughts, but bounces back with an answer.

“Tech, Communications, and Surveillance for the Intelligence Unit.”

“Sounds like it could be fun.” I find myself tapping my fingers on the bar. I try to stop, but it doesn’t help, so I keep it up. He doesn’t make an indication I should stop.

“You’d be surprised,” he says.

“You’re under one of those sergeants, then,” I say. “Mine was like that.”

He straightens at my comment, and we segue into silence.

A chorus of yells from the door make me jump. I nearly spill my drink, and my knuckles turn white against the glass. Sweet Lord. Was that necessary? I try to force my adrenaline to get out of my blood stream and I try to drop my heart rate just by willing it to decrease. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work at all. I clutch my dog tags.

I’m suddenly done being here, but he’s asking me what I did. He asked me what I did overseas. Answer, KC. Answer the question. Stop thinking about what happened. Stop. He’s nice. He’s cute. He’s a distraction. He's only a distraction.

“1st Squadron, 75th Cavalry. We… we jumped around. I was attached to a squad, started with Studies & Analysis Activity. A Cultural Support Team. Ended up doing Reconnaissance, surveillance and target acquisition.”

He nods in recognition. “You were one of the soldiers who would get information from the Afghani women when they weren’t allowed to talk to us.”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I did. You... you served?"

"Third Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment," He says, sighing.

"Where were you?"

"Korengal Valley mostly," he says. "You?"

"Kunar Province, Korengal Valley, Helmand Province, Kandahar. Did some time in Baghdad."

“Jesus. You see combat?” He whispers. He’s curious, he wants to know, but I don’t want to answer. I really don’t want to answer. Why do I keep answering?

I don’t look at him. “I wasn’t supposed to, but yeah. More than a few times.” With a wave at Otis, he’s bringing me another drink, and I’m not exactly sure how to handle this. He keeps asking questions and I look to Jay for help. He gives me a head nod, blatantly looks at Mouse, then back at me.

“I know you just got back—“

“Sorry, it’s still hard for me—“

We both stop after talking at the same time. He chuckles. I don’t. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to speak, clutching his beer. It takes a while before he speaks again, like he has to gain the strength.

“We—Jay and I—were on our last tour of Afghanistan. We were, uh, in the lead Humvee.” His eyes go dark, so he drinks. I get a wave of cold, just for a second. He knows what I’ve been through. He’s been there too, I realize.

“Medical discharge?”

“Yeah,” He clears his throat.

I stare at my drink. He doesn’t pry me for more. In fact, he lets me brood for a long time. But the words start coming out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t understand it.

“I was in Nangalam. About six months after I was promoted to Captain. I was… I was in the middle of something with some Pashai women. I—I don’t remember what it was anymore. Uh, bomber took out half my squad. The building collapsed around me. One of the women was killed, but I waited there until help came, trying to protect the women from the falling rubble.”

“How long did it take to find you?”

“Day and a half. A kid died as we were waiting. I…uh, Taliban. Or ISIS. Found us.” I get a cold chill, then slip on my jacket. It also covers my gunshot wound from being seen.

“When did that happen?”

I look down at my glass at the swirling liquid in between the ice. I try to breathe, but I hear the gunshots behind me like someone’s playing a war movie at the other side of the bar. I try to shut it out, but my mouth tastes like sand. I try to take a drink, but it doesn’t help. I’m just eating shards of glass.

“About three months ago,” I finally say. When I hear the ice clanking together in my glass from my shaking hand, I set it down and turn, leaning my back against the bar. “Between surgeries and rehab at Landstuhl… I finally got home about a month ago.”

I don’t look at him. “Damn. How…”

Grabbing for my drink, I finish it. I crunch on the ice. Nothing seems to help. Nothing seems to satiate my thirst. God, this sucks. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, and I don’t want to be in this bar anymore. This is too soon. This is way too soon. The apartment, the job, I can’t do this all at the same time. I can’t. I just can’t.

I lean my head on my fist, trying to stop the spinning, but it doesn’t help. I close my eyes, I try to breathe, but I stand up and slip out of the back door before he can stop me. The noise is too loud. I slip into one of the outdoor booths, thinking I should probably be cold, and the snow falls nearly silently around me.

I should leave. I should go home, but something makes me stay in that booth. It’s quiet. Chicago’s not usually this quiet on a Friday night. The snow falls heavier, in thick flakes. I drag my legs up to my chest, trying not to shiver. I’m finally getting cold. It feels nice, though. I can feel it dragging through my throat, and that’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m going to be fine.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what happened, clutch tightly to your dog tags, feel them sink into the folds of your fingers, you’re here, you’re not there. This is not you. This isn’t a part of you anymore. God, I can taste the blood—

“The cold helps, doesn’t it?”

I’m not really surprised he’s come out after me. He gave me enough time, it seems; I know he’s been there too, but it still hurts in my chest like the cold air. But he’s still standing there. He’s standing there, not waiting for an explanation, but ready for one if I give it. On his face is a little bit of hope.

I hear my voice before I realize I'm speaking. I don't know why I am. “I’m still not sure… uh, I’m not sure what organization it was. Taliban or Al-Qaeda or ISIS, at the end I couldn’t tell anymore, they… they found us before we—the U.S.—did. I mean, I think I was the only one left. The only one slightly alive, at least. I…” I swallow hard, looking away from him, trying to breathe. I feel like I’m being strangled. I feel him sit down next to me, and he sits just far enough away to give me enough space but close enough for me to know he’s there and he reaches out but doesn’t quite touch me.

“You don’t have to—“

“No, no, I have to. I should. I should. My leg was pinned by the rubble, and I had broken ribs, I was pretty positive, we had been there for so long…” I feel a warm tear course down my cheek and I wipe it away quickly. “The soldier, he, he pulled a gun on me. 45. Dust… too much sun, but the gun—I tried to talk to him, but before I could say anything, he—he shot me. Just… shot me. I woke up in Germany. I still don’t know… I don’t know if those women were saved, I don’t know. I just know I had broken bones and a lucky shot. It missed everything important. It missed it. I… I—“

I shiver, putting my head down on my arms on my knees. He doesn’t touch me, he doesn’t do anything to physically comfort me. But I can feel him there, silent.

“I am so sorry,” I start. “God, and I’m sure you were expecting a fun night, and you get this. I was so sure you would bail when I left.”

I hear him laugh. “Listen, I thought you were pretty when you came into the precinct, and the fact that you sat and talked to me for that long—“

“You thought I was pretty?” I say, turning to look at him. He stutters for a moment, trying to recover. It’s endearing.

“Yeah, I mean, yeah, I casually mentioned something to Jay…stop looking at me like that.”

He eventually stops, and looks at me, waiting for something. “You didn’t have to listen to me,” I say.

“I’ve been there,” he says matter-of-factly. “We all deal with it different. Me, Jay… you.”

“How am I compared to him?” I ask quietly.

“More similar than he would probably admit,” he says.

I’m not really that surprised. Although I was closer in age to Will, Jay and I still had a few more similarities. The law breaking, though, was more Will, that’s for sure. Regardless, I feel drained. This shouldn’t have ended the way it did. I’m sure I ruined whatever this could have been. If anything.

“I’m going to head home,” I whisper. He nods, a little defeated, but he stands up to let me out of the snow dusted booth. His hands in his pockets, he gestures with his elbow to the door.

“I’ll just head inside. It was really, really nice to meet you.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Nah,” he says immediately, but I know he’s not lying. He’s being serious, and it feels pretty good to not be pandered to. I stand up, brushing the snow off my shoulders, then peer out onto the streets. I’ve got no idea where I am, and I really, genuinely don’t want him to leave.

“So, uh, how do I get back to Racine from here? This is not my usual neighborhood.”

“Are you gonna walk it? That’s pretty damn far,” he comments, seemingly doing the math in his head.

“I like the fresh air, what can I say?”

It takes him half a second to join me. “You’re never gonna get back on your own, and I don’t want you walking by yourself. Besides, they'll put it on my tab.”

“You know I could take pretty much anyone?”

He doesn’t look at me while we cross the street. “Oh, I know. It’s so you have a witness if there’s a murder trial.” He talks out of the side of his mouth, and it’s endearing. I keep thinking that word, don’t I?

I don’t have anything witty to say, but I do smile. It’s one of the first smiles I’ve had since I came back, and the first smile from a non-Halstead.

Without thinking, I loop my arm through his, and in the streetlamps, I see his smirk. His endearing little smirk.


	4. There is a fragment of light, but it’s hiding in the distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouse confesses some of the things he's learned about KC, and Jay is shocked. Even so, Mouse tracks KC down at her new job at UIC.  
-  
In the first week of the semester at UIC, she finally connects with her class by telling them about her Army history. It's not long before Mouse finds her and, while endearing, she teases him until he finally asks her out.

**January 25, 2016**   
**0847 Hours**   
**Chicago Police Department, District 21**   
**Mouse**

The minute Jay meets me outside the precinct on Monday morning, he’s all over me.

“So?! You disappeared Friday! Did you go home with her? Please tell me you went home with her.”

“Dude, calm down. You’re rushing this a little bit, don’t ya think?”

We give our traditional recognition head nods to Platt, and she doesn’t even give a snide comment. Must be too busy with Burgess and Roman. Good, too. I don’t want to deal with her today.

We head up the stairs, and he keeps laying into me.

“Details. Did you seal the deal—“

I can’t help myself from straight up glaring at him. “No, Jay. No, I didn’t.”

He’s getting desperate. “Did you get her phone number?”

I scoff, and I know I'm being overconfident. “You know I don’t need to.”

“What?!” He walks backwards towards his desk so he can continue to give me his judging face. “C’mon, man. That’s just disappointing.”

I beckon him back over, and he nearly vaults his desk.

“She’s got some serious problems; you know that?”

Jay seems to shrug but gets a little more serious. “She’s got some PTSD. I know.”

“Is she getting help for it?”

“What the hell did you do to her, Mouse?!”

I glare at him. “Me? I didn’t do a thing! God, I don’t blame her, after Nangalam—“

Jay straightens. “She told you? The whole story?”

“Yeah, the building collapse, the guy who shot her. Landstuhl.”

Jay’s eyes widen as he looks down at the floor and I realize—

“She hasn’t told you?”

He crosses his arms tight over his chest. I know he's nervous now. “Nah, she didn’t say anything. I found her a couple weeks ago, full blown attack, but she wouldn’t tell me. She hasn’t told me anything yet. Why would she tell you and not me?”

“Probably my endearing face,” I say with a smirk, but in all honestly, I don’t know why she would tell me before she would tell Jay. I’ve got an idea, but it’s a stupid one. She’s still out of your league, Mouse, even when she’s a little bit broken.

But aren’t we all a little broken?

* * *

**January 25, 2016**   
**1005 Hours**   
**University of Illinois—Chicago**   
**KC**

“I want to start today with the list of inventions the Mesopotamians created during their heyday. Anyone want to start?” I peer around the lecture hall, and no one is raising their hand. “Look, I know it’s a Monday, but did anyone do the reading?”

A brave sophomore gently shakes his head.

I look over the 18-year-olds. “Is this payback for assigning a chapter to read on your first weekend back, or are you hazing me?”

A few of them laugh, so I venture a smirk, grabbing my coffee and drinking the rest of it. Dammit. I didn’t sleep for shit last night, and desperately need more. Being alone in that apartment didn’t help. I don’t have anyone to tell me when I’m dreaming.

But I look around the room. Blank stares. These kids don’t trust me yet. I’m not even sure they like me. They definitely don’t want to be here, so I go with my gut and throw the switch on the projector. One of the kids in the back perks up.

“Here’s the deal. I’m not lecturing today.” A murmur goes through the room. “You guys don’t know me, I’ve worked for this school for five days, so let’s do this, alright? First, I need a volunteer.” No one moves a muscle. “Listen, first hand I see gets this week’s discussion participation grade.” A few hands shoot upwards. I notice a girl in the back, a quiet one, looking particularly desperate and relatively trustworthy. “You. In the back. Pink hoodie. Yep, c’mon down.”

She makes her way down to the front of the lecture hall, and I hand her the ten I’ve got in my pocket. “Extra-large, black coffee, one sugar at the Dunkin in the Student Center. Get whatever you want with the change, I don’t care, make sure you come back, though?”

She grins and I know I’ve sunk one.

“Where’s she going?” A voice says.

“A secret mission,” I snap. “Now’s your chance to ask me questions. Do it now or forever hold your peace. I’m not calling on you, so put your hands down and yell over each other.” Probably not the best teaching practice, but I don’t care at this point. I drag my chair over, throw my blazer over it—I’m definitely over heating—and perch on it.

“Where are you from?”

“Canaryville. South Side of Chicago. What, you can't tell from my accent? Next question.”

“How old are you?”

I point at him. “Never ask a woman her age, but since you look a little embarrassed, 29.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“November fourth. I’m a Scorpio, before you ask.”

A wave of chuckles. It’s actually working. I hear the door shut quietly, but I ignore the person who just came in because I can see in my peripheral vision they’re not in a suit and don’t seem to be administration.

“What did you do before this?”

I open my mouth to take a breath, but suddenly stop. I feel my demeanor dropping. It’s a façade, really. But I realize—I look down at my shoulder. The sleeveless top I’m wearing doesn’t hide some of the scar.

“I… I worked overseas. I just recently came home.” Before they ask, I want to stop it, and I don’t know how except to come clean. “I was in the Army, working with a Cultural Support Team.”

“What’s that mean?”

I go through the motions, the same explanation I'm used to giving. “I was attached to a squad, started with Studies & Analysis Activity. A Cultural Support Team. Ended up doing Reconnaissance, surveillance and target acquisition. I would talk to women who weren’t allowed to talk to men, due to their culture and religion. 1st Squadron, 75th Cavalry.”

“How long?” The same voice asks. “What was your rank?”

“Seven and a half years. I did six tours,” I respond promptly, trying to hold my breath. “Captain.”

There’s a tension in the room, and a palpable silence. My new friend makes it back to the room, holding my coffee and two tiny paper bags. She sets all but one of the bags on my podium.

“I got you a donut,” she whispers with a grin, handing me my change. “And an extra shot of espresso.”

Damn. I think she’s going to get As from now on in participation. I like her.

“So yes, everyone, I am a veteran, and now I’m here to teach your lazy asses. So you all better do the reading for Wednesday, am I clear?” I say, reaching for my coffee.

I take a long drink from the cup, and suddenly there’s a disjointed chorus of “yes, ma’am”, mostly said with sarcastic smirks.

“Get out of my lecture hall before I assign more to read,” I say, trying to hide my smile behind my coffee cup.

They don’t have to be told twice. I sit on my swivel chair, watching the horde disappear. A pair of guys though, they approach, and one holds out his hand. Instead of instinctively shaking it, I slap it.

“You’re alright, Professor,” he says, his friend nodding behind him. His voice is the one that was asking me more details. “I might actually like this class.”

“I don’t care if you like it. I care if you learn.”

“Then I might actually learn from this class,” he adds, stepping towards the door. “Oh, hey—“

“Don’t ‘oh hey’, me.”

“Will you let me say thank you?”

“For what?”

“For your service. My dad was in Iraq.”

“Where?”

“Baghdad. 1st Battalion, 82nd Field Artillery Regiment. He was at Camp Victory for a while.”

“I’ve been there,” I confirm. “I know the 82nd. We used to play football with them. When was he there?”

The kid seems to rack his brain. “I would have to ask, but I think it was his last tour. He came home in 2010.”

I chuckle. “I was there around that time. Not for very long, but I think we were there at the same time.”

“That’s pretty badass,” the kid seems to admit as he finally slips out of the door. I stare up at the empty lecture hall. It’s only ten thirty, but I think if I’ve got the same response in my next class, I’ll do it again. I’ve got until noon to wait, though, and there’s a class in here during that hour.

Eh. I’m not ready to get up. I’m not ready for this job, to be honest. Everything happened so quickly, I don’t know if I can keep up.

I check my phone. I’ve got a text from Erin about meeting up soon, a text from Sylvie, making sure I've got her number, and three texts from Jay: _you never texted me about the other night._ And _this is need to know._ And _dammit Kate he won’t tell me._

I roll my eyes. _No. it’s not need to know._

Three dots and a buzz. _Are you going out again?_

I huff, already slightly irritated by his prying. _I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready. _

“I would’a stayed in college if you’d been teaching.”

I jump, but I know the voice, and I look up to see Mouse strolling towards me, hands in his coat pockets and an Army green beanie on his head. I’m not quite sure how I feel about him being here. At first, I think I’m wary, but he looks so innocent. It’s not his fault.

“What’re you doing here? Are you flirting with me, Mouse?”

He flips through a handful of emotions in just a few seconds: first, terror; then confusion and some sort of an attempt to regain a little bravado, then his cheeks turn red as he stutters.

“Yes? I mean, it depends. I don’t know. No? What’s the right answer, you’re the professor!”

The whole little outburst actually does make me chuckle. I don’t know if it’s because I feel sorry for him, or whether it’s taken me that much off my guard, but he doesn’t seem to look offended.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for laughing, but are you okay? You didn’t break yourself, did you?”

“I’m fine,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “I just thought I would… well, stop by? Check on you? I don’t know, maybe I should just leave…” He throws his thumb to the door.

“No!” I say quickly. “Don’t leave.” I surprise myself, actually. I didn’t know I didn’t want him to leave. Wow. But how— “How did you know I was here?”

“Oh, that was easy.” His bravado is back. He smirks and talks out of the side of his mouth. “Took about two seconds. Hacked into the school’s private server, found—“

“You looked up my name on the course catalog.”

He gives me a cheesy smirk. “I looked up your name on the course catalog. Nice save, though.”

“You may be a hacker, but you’re not a dumb hacker,” I say, packing up the rest of my stuff and chugging my coffee.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment. What are you doing right now?”

“Probably consider how I’m going to bribe my next class. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at the precinct?”

“Well… yeah,” he says.

“Jay sent you down, didn’t he?” The look of terror comes back. I start towards the door. “Damn, you are a shitty liar, you know that?”

“I’m not lying to you. I didn’t say anything, really,” he adds.

He still follows me, even when I head out of the door. “So, Jay sent you. He sent you to do what, exactly?”

I burst onto the quad and the cold air nearly takes my breath away. He gasps as well. Jesus Christ, it’s cold. I see Professor Cutler across the quad and give him a head nod. He gives me a little wave.

“I, uh—“ he exhales hard, creating a cloud of his breath in front of him. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. He just bounces a little on his feet.

Why does Jay keep pushing this guy towards me? I’m still trying to figure it out. I mean, they were Rangers together, yeah, but something about him… Jay knows something I don’t. Maybe this Mouse knows something I don’t, but I think he’s trying to ask me out to dinner, and he’s still stuttering. The cold probably didn’t help.

Is that really what I want? I just got home. I just got back, and I just started this job. I’m still… adjusting, for lack of better word. Do I really want to deal with a relationship on top of it? I haven’t dated in years. I’ve had my personal life on hold for the service of my country. God, he’s talking about how cold it is now, and I can’t take it anymore.

“Listen, I can’t answer your question until you ask it. And I’m not going to make it easy on you, either.”

“What? Oh. I’m sorry, I’m no good at this,” he drifts.

“Jay keeps forcing you?”

“Oh, he’s not forcing me to do anything. It’s more like… violent encouragement.”

“If we go to dinner, I don’t do fancy. I don’t think my body can handle that right now. And I’ve got a department meeting tonight, but I should be done around six. You can find me here. At the quad.”

He looks dumbfounded, but then smiles. “That was so much easier than I had it play out in my head.”

I start walking backwards, but this time, he doesn’t follow. “Yeah, I did all the hard work for you!”

“I’ll do better next time!”

I turn around. He’s already assuming there’ll be a next time. I don’t know if he’s realized that, but it still makes me smile.

* * *

**January 25, 2016**  
1056 Hours  
Chicago Police Department, District 21  
Mouse

When I make it back to the precinct, Jay’s still there and he is waiting. Doesn’t even have to ask to know how it went.

He gives me a thumbs up, beaming.

“How do you know already?”

Jay holds up his phone. "She’s way ahead of you, dude.“

“When did she text you?”

“Like, ten minutes ago.”

I try not to let Jay see it, but damn, am I surprised. “She had to have texted you right after I left. What did she say?"

Jay smirks, slipping his phone in his pocket.

“Knew you could do it.”

"I could hack your phone and just read your texts."

"But you won't!"

I hang my coat on the back of my chair, trying to warm my hands. I shrug, pretending it was easier than it was. He doesn’t have to know, right? It’s gonna happen, whether I did it or not.

“Knew he could do what?” Ruzek says, leaning back on his chair so he can insert himself into the conversation. With that, both Olinsky and Atwater are listening.

“You know my friend, Kate? KC? The one you helped move in? Atwater, you weren’t there because you’re an asshole,” he adds, and Atwater flips Jay off. Jay doesn’t miss a beat. “Mouse totally asked her out.”

“What?! Seriously?” Ruzek explodes excitedly. “How in the hell?”

“Nice one, man,” Atwater says with his typical emotionless tone as he thumbs through a file folder. “She hot?”

I sigh. “Tall. Chestnut brown wavy hair. Gray-green eyes...”

“Dude, you’re zoning out.” I perk up when Jay calls me out.

Olinsky harrumphs. “So far out of your league, kid.”

“Hey. Hey. None of that,” Jay snaps. “They’re totally in the same league. She said yes, didn’t she?”

“Damn right she did,” I say, starting my computer so I can help them go through the files from the case we’re all on right now. “And we’re meeting up tonight.”

Jay can’t even contain himself, he’s grinning so hard.

“Oh, you finally asked KC out?” Lindsay says, setting a steaming mug on Jay’s desk as she embraces her own. Jay takes it greedily.

“Does everyone in this precinct know?” I call out to the room.

“Does everyone in this precinct know what?” The gruff voice responds. We all immediately straighten as Voight arrives, followed by Dawson, and luckily enough as Jay retracts his feet from on top of his desk he produces a manila folder.

“That our serial killer and rapist has an M.O. that connects him to four more cases over the past five years,” he says, suddenly solemn. He must have found that information while I was gone. “Four women since 2014 have been found strangled and raped immediately prior to death.”

He puts four more photos on the board. We’ve got eight now: from eighteen to thirty-five. Mostly brunettes. He has yet to leave a single identifying clue.

“I want all the info on those cases, I want you to go through them with a fine-tooth comb. Don’t miss anything.”

“Already on it, boss,” Ruzek says, holding up his own manila folder.

“Keep lookin’. I want this guy in my cage before he can kill anyone else.”

He heads to his office, and I start searching. Regardless of the case, I do it with a smirk. Jay sees it, and he smiles too.

* * *

**January 25, 2016**   
**1749 Hours**   
**University of Chicago—Illinois**   
**KC**

I fell asleep in the damn meeting. I mean, I must have. There was a part that I distinctly don’t remember, and I lost about 25 minutes in the middle there. But it’s nearly six, and I’m hoping to sneak out before I’m accosted by someone else. He wasn’t in my department meeting, but I’ve seen him around campus. He’s an unassuming man, fairly forgettable, but highly enthusiastic.

“Professor Cavanagh! I understand you were the savior of the six-car pileup on the Miracle Mile!”

“Oh, is that still a thing?” I mutter, reaching out to shake his hand. “I guess it is. Hi. You are…?”

“Dr. Jeffrey Hansen. Psychology department. I understand you just started teaching?”

He's short, shorter than me, and he makes me very uncomfortable. “Um, yeah. Last week. They had to fill the position quickly… something had happened to the last professor?”

He drops his eyes to the floor. “Oh, yes. Terrible situation.”

“Terrible?”

“Her body…” He stops, the restarts after clearing his throat. “They found her during winter break. She had been strangled. Terrible situation, really. Did no one tell you?”

I’m not sure how to process this information, so I go with my default. “Nope, no one told me. Probably a good idea, too, since they wanted someone to fill the position. Good to know I took over from someone who was recently murdered. You think I’m haunted? Or at least cursed?”

He looks at me like I’m the least compassionate person on the planet, then changes his tune. “Could we perhaps continue our discussion over dinner? I would love to hear what you have to say about your time overseas.”

I take a step back, but he takes a step forward. “I… I’ve got plans for tonight.”

“Then perhaps I could contact you?” He begins, grinning widely.

“Yeah, my office number’s in the contact list,” I say, and he immediately looks like I’ve kicked his puppy. “Call me and I’ll set up a meeting!”

“Oh. I’ll—I’ll be sure to do that, then.”

But I’m already gone and out of the door, and it’s just as cold as it was when I was out and about this morning. I see the shadow of one Greg “Mouse” Gerwitz, his beanie still pulled tight over his ears, his feet bouncing against the pavement.

“You could have come inside,” I comment, trying not to shiver under my light jacket. “It’s not like it’s illegal.”

“You said the quad, I’m at the quad!” He says, his teeth chattering.

“Are you always this—“

“Yes.”

“—literal?”

He does this expression that I’ve seen him do before: he kind of squints and shrugs, like he’s apologizing for everything that’s wrong in the world. “I thought you were going to ask if I’m always this weird, but the answer is still probably a resounding yes. Let’s go.”

“Do you have a location picked?” I ask, knowing he probably doesn’t. “I was gonna suggest Hawkeye's. As long as they have beer and pub food, that’s all I want in my life right now.”

"If I'm not at Molly's, I'm at Hawkeye's," Mouse seems to admit. We practically run towards Harrison, flag down a taxi and try to regain warmth in the back of the car.

"Are you always planning first dates at familiar dive bars, or are you making a special exception?” He asks, and I try to pull my jacket closer around my shoulders. I should have worn more. I should have known better, honestly.

“The number of first dates I’ve been on have been very small. Been a bit of a dry spell.”

“What constitutes as a dry spell?”

“Eight years, give or take.”

“You’ll have that,” he says. “I can kinda understand, although I’m more of a ‘crash and burn’ kinda guy.” He mimics a plane crashing into the side of the door.

“No, you don’t say?” I ask. He turns and tries to glare at me, but smirks instead like he figured out my sarcasm.

“Do you ever get tired of being so damn sarcastic?”

“Yes,” I nod. “All of the time.”

He just looks out the window, covering his smiling mouth with his hand as he leans on the door. But we arrive at our location quickly. He swiftly pays the taxi driver, opens the door, and holds out a hand to help me out.

“A true Chicago gentleman.”

“I’m just freakin’ cold, to be honest,” he says, holding the door open as I’m hit with a blast of warm air. The last time I had been here, I wasn't legally old enough to be here. It's like stepping back in time.

“Drinks? Menus?” One of the servers call as we find a taller table in the back.

“I don’t, but she does,” Mouse calls back.

"Apparently, you come here a lot," I slightly accuse. I settle into my seat, leaning my chin on my fist as he pulls off his beanie and runs his hand through his hair. It doesn’t really help the unruliness of the dark brown mess, but he seems to stop caring as soon as I get a menu.

“If you’ve got any questions on that menu, I’ve tried basically everything.”

“I’m just a little overwhelmed,” I say. “I’ve had mostly ramen noodles, coffee, and knockoff Cinnamon Toast Crunch since I moved in. Still waiting on my first check.”

“What? That’s not happening. Wait, you got back a month ago, and this is the first you’re even considering eating real food?”

“It has been a month,” I say in realization. “The Halsteads have always had a shortcoming when it comes to pantry loading. I did make them breakfast one day. Does that count?”

He's wildly gesturing at this point. “No! God, no. When you spend that long overseas, you need to celebrate with disgusting American food.” I can’t lie, the cheeseburger does sound pretty fantastic, and when the waitress comes back with Mouse’s beer, I can’t resist.

“I just need a cheeseburger. I need the most perfect cheeseburger you can create, because he’s reminding me I’ve been home and still haven’t had a bar cheeseburger. I need a lot of fries.”

“You got it,” she nods, her hands on her hips. “What would you like to dri—“

“Guinness.”

“That one was easy,” he scoffs as the waitress leaves to put in our order.

“My name’s Kate Cavanagh. What kind of beer do you think I’m drinking?”

“I still can’t believe you haven’t had a burger yet,” Mouse says, stuck on that subject. “I was literally in my fatigues getting a cheeseburger.”

“I got off the train and ran to a car accident,” I harrumph.

“Yeah, how did that even happen?”

“Besides what I just told you? Or what you read in the papers?”

He gives me a blank look.

“Sorry. It’s hard for me to turn off. I mean, I just did it. You wouldn’t have?”

“I probably would have thought a little harder about it.”

I stare at the wood grain of the table. “I’m still in the mindset. I just got home. I just… I started wandering. Honestly, Mouse, I had nowhere to go, and no plan, and nobody. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just… I guess I was headed for Navy Pier. I just wanted to remind myself I was in Chicago again. But I get off the train, I walk a few blocks, and then I see it. I see a ton of people watching but no one helping. I had to tell someone to call 911. It was ridiculous to me. It just felt like no one wanted to help. It felt like no one cared other than to watch the shitshow.”

“They care. Some of them do.”

“I’m figuring that out,” I say, and I'm gifted a gorgeous draft of Guinness. It tastes like home when I accidentally chug a third of it. Mouse shrugs, seemingly in respect of what just happened.

“So, you grew up with the Halsteads…”

“Yep.”

“Wanna share details?”

“What do you wanna know? We grew up down the street from each other. Will is about six months older than me, and Jay’s about six months younger than me. Jay and I were in the same year. When we were growing up, Will and I looked more alike than he and Jay did. Our families called us the Irish twins.”

“So you grew up in Canaryville?”

“We all went to Saint Gabe’s for elementary school. Jay and I were in the same grade. God, we used to get into so much shit. Then, sent us to De La Salle, and they had schools for boys and girls by the time we graduated. Still hung out on the weekends, until college. My parents got divorced, remarried. I decided to go into ROTC because I had no idea what else to do with my life, and all four of them hated it. By the time I graduated they all moved out of Chicago, and I went overseas. I have literally no idea why I’m telling you all of this.”

“I have one of those faces. Also could be the beer.”

“I hold my beer better than that. It’s the hunger. So, what about you?” I mutter, trying to get the focus awkwardly off of me.

“What about me?”

“Your history. Your life. What’s your deal?”

“Besides watching you annihilate that beer?”

“And to think, I thought I could distract you with a question.”

He tries not to make eye contact with me. “Joined the Rangers. I got in a lot of trouble before that. Hacking. Stupid shit. Thought it would straighten me out.”

“Did it?”

“Ha. Cute.” He adds. “Nah. When I got back, I just… I’ve kinda floated.”

“Jay told me you hacked a Department of Defense Satellite.”

“That was one time!” He says, exasperated.

“Oh my God, are you serious?”

“He was definitely telling the truth. There’s been a few close calls.”

“Why do shit like that? Adrenaline? Stupidity?”

“All of the above?” He says. He adjusts in his seat, like the conversation was just touching on awkward. “Some were jobs, some were just… look, I was in a bad place, and Jay helped me out by getting me the job at the precinct.”

“What the hell where you into?”

He sighs. “I… I got into some shit. I dealt in some… sketchy supplies. Detonation cords. Blasting caps. I was with some bad people. Drugs. Kind of ended up as a confidential informant for Jay.”

“Wow. Holy shit. What changed?”

“I got lucky.”

“I’ll accept that.”

The food arrives—me, a basic cheeseburger, which was piled with about everything under the sun, and Mouse gets this super burger that I have no idea how he’s going to maneuver. We segue into silence, and I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s moving fast and I’m not sure I like the speed. But still, the conversation is easy. The question is out of my mouth before I can tell myself not to sabotage this one.

“Mouse… can I just make something clear here?”

“What’s up?” He leans forward, suddenly attentive.

“I’m not sure what your expectations are here. I just know that I’m going to need to take time. I need to move slowly. I’m not ready for words or titles or statuses. Not… not yet. Is that okay with you?”

He nods immediately, unbothered. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you.”

For the first time in a long time, I actually believe someone I barely know with a statement like that. I really don’t understand it. I don’t.

“You’re not what I expected, Mouse.”

“You’re not what I expected, either,” he says. “I didn’t think you would give me the time of day, honestly.”

“While we’re being honest,” I hear myself say before I can control what’s coming out of my mouth, “You were the only person in that bar the other night I thought I could talk to.”

He chuckles. When he does, like when he smiles, the side of his mouth curves up and he looks down, down to the table, down to the floor, down to his hands. It’s a theme, I’ve realized.

The burgers disappear, the beers flow, and after what I guess is hours, we drift off to the first silence, and I’m drifting into slight intoxication.

“Okay. Weird question time.”

“Sounds good to me,” he says, downing about a third of his beer. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

He chuckles. “Um, okay. We’re doing third grade questions now?”

“Answer the question, Mouse.”

With a smirk at his nickname, he seems to think. “Probably blue.”

“Green. Your turn.”

“Of course it’s green. You’re like, bleeding Irish.”

“Don’t forget it, either.”

“My turn for a question?” He says, looking up at the ceiling.

“There’s no help for you up there.”

“I’m thinkin’, alright?! It’s important. Ahh, sports. Firstly, do you like sports, and secondly, if so, what teams?”

“Sports, yes, and in order: Blackhawks, Cubs, Bears.”

He perks. “Wait, you’re a baseball fan? And a hockey fan?”

“I played softball and hockey in high school. De La Salle Meteors.”

“Well, then,” he mutters, drinking more of his beer. “I’m starting to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why Jay kept telling me to ask you out.”

“Jay tends to know things no one else does,” I say. He’s intense in that way. He doesn’t always say a lot, but he sees a lot, and that’s what counts.

“What positions did you play?”

“Shortstop and power forward. A bit of an enforcer, too, if I really admit it. But it was Catholic school. I got a lot of Hail Marys. What about you?”

“Me? Athletics? Nah. Not quite the organized sport type.”

“Chess club, then?”

He scoffs. “Now you’re just being rude.”

“Look at you. I’m almost taller than you. Little Polish kid.”

“Polish and German, thank you.”

“With a name like Gerwitz—“

“Shut up, Cavanagh.”

“I could skate better than you and you know it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he harrumphs.

“We should go,” I say decidedly.

“Nothing’s going to be open,” he stutters. “It’s midnight.”

“How did it become midnight? Jesus. Yes, let's go.”

He finishes off his beer, shrugging, like he’s making a half-drunk decision. “Fine. Are we breakin’ in, or…? And do you have ice skates?”

I start racking my brain. Skates, skates, skates… I have some at home.

“What size shoes do you wear?”

“Ten. Why—“

I stand up, already slipping on my coat. If we stop at my apartment, I can at least get a sweater and some gloves.

“I have my dad’s at my house. His are tens. C’mon.”

I grab his hand, and he yells to the waitress to put it on his tab, and we’re running out the door. After about a block and a half, although he isn’t out of breath, he flags down a cab.

“Racine and Grenshaw!” I cry out, falling into the backseat. Damn, it used to take me more than that to get drunk. How many have I had? Eight? Ten?

“Were you going to run the entire way?!” He asks, his cheeks red from beer or the cold.

“What, couldn’t you keep up?”

“Kate, the windchill is like, negative thirteen.”

“I know. It’s so fucking cold. I can’t feel my hands.” I hold them up, and they’re turning reddish. He cups my fingers in his, rubbing them together. It doesn’t really help, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that.

“Five minutes. Wait here, please!”

We’re headed up my steps until I scramble to unlock my locks to my kitchen door. Once we’re in, I pull off my jacket and throw it on the arm chair.

“Aren’t you cold?!” He calls out as I stumble into my bedroom.

“Nah, I’ve spent the last seven and a half years on and off in the Middle East. I’m not cold at all.” I find an old UIC hoodie, my gloves, a coat from years ago, and quickly pull it all on, then find the box I’ve got still on the floor of stuff from the old house—I find my skates and dad’s old skates before hurtling out the door.

“Time to go!”

When we make it back to the taxi, I direct him towards the Mag Mile. We get there in no time, and Mouse is all but silent. I pay the driver, hopefully giving him enough, and we disembark near the giant bean statue. The lights to the rink are off now, and it shrouds the entire area in darkness, but there’s enough ambient light to give us enough room to breathe.

At the nearest bench, I slip off my boots and put on my ice skates. Mouse silently starts to do the same, but I don’t wait for him—I jump the tiny fence to the rink. It’s still a bit rough, as they haven’t run the Zamboni since the last skaters left, but I can handle it. I’m shaky at first, but it’s probably the alcohol. I do a small circle, regaining my bearings, and make a lap of the rink. At the other end of the rink, I start gaining speed. I wonder if I still have it in me. I think I can do it. If I don’t, at least I die trying.

“Kate. Kate, what are you doing—“ Mouse hisses, trying not to raise his voice too loudly. I slip into the backwards position, watch where I’m going, slam my toe pick into the ice and spin in the air. I make it the standard two and a half rotations before I land, sliding my leg out for balance. Before, when the cold air felt uncomfortable, now tastes like home. This is the Chicago I left. This is what I miss.

I skate back over to Mouse, who barely vaults the wall before he’s grabbing onto it again. My heart sinks. I don’t know if I’m sad for him or me.

“You can’t skate, can you?”

“I love hockey. I love watching hockey. I have never been on the ice in my life.”

I cover my mouth with my hand as I try to hide my laughter. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know! You didn’t say anything!”

“Yeah, well, when a pretty girl tells you to go ice skating, you go ice skating! Then you had to do that… that what, triple Axel loop jump whatever…”

“It was a double Axel, thank you for noticing,” I say, holding out my hands for him to hold. “Alright. Give me your hands. You’re gonna feel a little weird, but you need to balance on the inside edges of your skates, yeah? Too wide, too wide. Bring it in a little. Bend your knees a little. There you go.” He adjusts, still looking a little panicked. “So to move, you kind of step back on an angle with your right and kick off. You’ll glide a little. Then you’ll bring your foot back, balance on both, switch your weight and then do the same with your left.”

“You lost me at ‘give me your hands’.”

“Hold on to the wall and watch my feet.” I move his hand to the wall, back up, and slowly glide in front of him. “Make sense?”

“Would it make you feel better if I said yeah?”

I watch my feet as I skate back up to him. “Hands.” He quickly slaps his into mine. “Just try.”

He looks up at me, huffs out a cloud of his breath, and tries to kick off. I balance him, he’s shaky, but he finally looks up at me when we make it halfway down the length of the rink.

“I’m really distracted by the fact you’re skating backwards, and it upsets me,” he mutters in concentration.

“Jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”

He slides a little too far, and I grab onto his arms before he can fall.

“Nice save, Cavanagh,” he adds as I pull him back up.

“Don’t try to over-balance. You’re leaning too far forward. Straighten up a little.”

He does, and a bit of the shakiness leaves as he looks up to me. I swallow hard, but I ignore it. Stop it, Cavanagh. Stop.

I let go of one hand. He nearly panics, but I slip my other hand around his back. His eyes search the ice, but I see the slight upturn of the side of his mouth as I do.

“Keep doing what you’re doing and you’re going to be just fine,” I say, leading him into another lap.

“We’re definitely going to get caught out here,” he says conversationally, but I keep skating. I start moving a little faster, and he skips a step, trying to keep up. He almost makes me fall.

“I swear, Mouse, if I go down with you, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Shh, I’m concentrating.”

I let my arm go from his back, and he nearly scrambles for a new hand hold until he realizes I’m making him skate by himself.

“Look at that. You’re doing just fine,” I say, skating in front of him, backwards, with my hands behind my back.

“You’re just a showoff.”

“I have to be.”

He holds his hands out in front of him, watching the ice instead of me. I shift backwards, faster, and away from him, and I feel his eyes on me as I start to gain speed again. Closer to the center of the rink, I get into position and see if I can do it one more time—a double axel, double toe combination. That’s the last thing I remember learning, and if I still can, I’ll regard it as a success.

The air whips through my hair, and although I land hard, I still land, feeling the cold clutching to my throat as I cough.

“I’m assuming you did figure skating.”

“You’re assuming correctly.”

“You chose hockey, though.”

“I’m still an inherently violent person,” I say. “Why are you holding to the wall?”

“You left to be Tara Lipinski.”

“Your reference is impressive, but c’mon. Hands.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

He gives me his hands again, and I literally drag him back through the rink. I don’t reference what he said, either. I’m ignoring it, to be honest. I’m ignoring the way he looks at me as I skate backwards, or the way he clutches his hands against mine—

My back slams against the ice, and he crashes somewhere next to me. I’m looking at the sky before I even register the pain in my shoulder. My bad shoulder slammed the ice.

“Shit! Kate, you okay? You’re not hurt, are you—“

He cuts himself off because I can’t stop laughing. It’s surprising at first, to hear myself laugh, but it cuts through the cold air until my throat hurts.

“We’re gonna throw in the towel,” I say, and he still looks horribly concerned. “I’m fine! I’m fine. Are you fine?”

“Everything’s good except my pride,” he harrumphs, and when I get up I pull him to his feet. We stop, too close to each other, as he wavers. We’re definitely too close. Before he can spend another moment staring at me, waiting for something that I can’t give him, I let go of him except for one hand and pull him towards the wall. Once I vault it, I give him a hand getting over and we silently take off our skates.

We don’t get a cab. Instead, we silently walk for a while, until he mentions having to go a different direction to his place.

“Thanks for tonight,” he finally says. “Even if I embarrassed myself.”

“You didn’t. It was fun,” I concede. “Maybe we can even skate in daylight sometime.”

He smiles. It’s not the smirk he has when he thinks I’m not looking. This one is full and real. “Call me, then.”

I nod. I will. I think I actually will. Before he steps away, I lean forward and kiss his cheek. As the surprise fades, he beams as he leaves, and it’s worth the cold I know I’m going to get by the end of the week.


	5. There is time, so take some rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cold comes for KC, and it comes hard. The flashbacks nearly take her over until Jay and Will find her, half dead, in her apartment.   
\-   
Mouse hears about KC's incident and, blaming himself, takes it upon himself to try to make things right.

**January 30, 2016**   
**2212 Hours**   
**1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago**   
**KC**

I’m stuck in static. Shivers. Cold. How am I so cold? This is the desert, you idiot. How did I get here? I was in Chicago. Or was I? Can’t breathe. I’m not sure why. Well, I’m sure I can wager a guess. God, it hurts. My chest hurts. Why does my chest hurt?

I’ve got a gaping hole there. I’ve been shot. It’s happening again. I’m dying again. I remember the helicopter; I remember the pain. God, I remember the pain. It’s coming back. It’s all coming back.

I remember telling them help was coming. I told them help should be there anytime soon. I told them, and I lied to them. More and more keep dying. God, why did I think I could make a difference?

I slam shut my eyes and the scene changes. This is before. This is long before. I’m twenty-five and holding an assault rifle. I’m not technically supposed to have it. I’m not supposed to be in combat, not yet. But I need to be.

The sand seeps into my skin. It becomes a part of me. I find it days later, months later, smashed into my fatigues. It doesn’t go away. None of it goes away. The gunfire pings off the sand. I try to make myself smaller behind our makeshift defense, but nothing seems to work. I want to shoot, but I can’t. I’m under so much fire.

“Lieutenant, cover me!”

I can’t disobey a direct order. I slide up to my knees and start shooting over the barrier. One of the people shooting at us is a boy around twelve.

Shiver. I’m cold. I shouldn’t be this cold. So many things feel wrong, like a dream where you can taste colors. There’s a knock, but all I can see is sun and sand. A voice outside my door, what door? I don’t have a door, just gunshots.

A key scratches against the lock, and I hear the door open. Is this a sick metaphor? I don’t know. Guns going off. Shooting that doesn’t stop. The beat patters off the sand, the sand—

I think I’m shot. I think I’m bleeding. Nothing feels right. My door opens? Someone is here, someone is coming—

“Kate? KC—“

Raise your gun, Captain. The threat isn’t gone. The threat is still here. I can’t stop shivering. God, I’m cold.

“What day is it? Do you know what day it is? Do you know where you are?”

“Take—take cover, dammit—“ Whoever it is doesn’t listen, he doesn’t listen, “You’ve got to listen to me—"

It’s Jay, I think. That would make sense. He’s over here too. He’s got my back. He’s got my back—

“Kate. It’s Will. Listen to me. Listen to my voice.”

“W-Will? You’re not—you shouldn’t—“

My voice sounds pathetic comparatively. But I’m right. He shouldn’t be here. There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Kate? You’re in the present.” Wait… he’s right. He’s right. “It’s January… what day is it?”

“30th.”Another voice. It’s Jay. It’s definitely Jay.

“Kate, it’s January 30th, 2016. Can you hear me?”

I nod, although I’m still in Afghanistan. I’m still in Afghanistan. I’m not in Afghanistan. Where am I?

“Jesus Christ, why is it so cold in here?”

“She left the Goddamn window open.”

I pull at my chest, I feel the blood dripping, but it’s not helping. It’s not helping, I’m going to die, I feel the pain in my chest. I start coughing, it hurts. Everything hurts. I’m shivering, but it’s hot. Why is it so cold in here, Jay asked me—“It’s not cold. Everything’s too warm. The sand—“

“Ground yourself, KC. C’mon.” Hands on my arms. I push them away. No one touch me, I don’t want to be touched, leave me the hell alone.

“What—“

“She’s having a flashback on top of it.”

On top of what, I wonder?

"I thought you said she met up with Sylvie a couple days ago and Sylvie said she was getting sick."

"I didn't think she would get this bad, but her body's not used to the weather here anymore. Try to ground her, Jay."

He touches me again, but this time I let him, his burning skin touching my shoulder.

“Hey, hey—remember that time we almost got in a fight at House of Blues?” Someone sticks something in my mouth. I accept it, but it tastes metallic. It’s Jay. Jay’s voice. “It was July 2004, I think. We had just graduated, and Will was home from college…”

What night was that? “You mean House of Blues? The Killers?”

“Yeah, yeah, the Killers,” he says. “God, we fought to the first row. I nearly broke my arm. Didn’t… didn’t Will get a black eye?”

“Yeah! From Kate!" Will adds.

"Hell, you felt so bad, you bought tickets to… oh, who was that—“ Jay says to me. I hear him whisper to Will. “What’s her temperature?”

“105. We’ve gotta get it down. Now. I’ll start running water in the tub.”

The tub? 105? 105 degrees… when I was in the Sandbox, that’s how hot it was…

“Hey, Kate. Who did you take Will to in apology?”

Not a question about temperatures. I’m thinking. I’m trying to remember. This is a different type of memory. “I—I dragged you both to Warped Tour. Yellowcard a-and Taking Back Sunday and My Chemical Romance and Flogging Molly…”

“That was the best summer of our lives.”

“Best summer of our lives,” I repeat. God, I’m so warm, but I can’t stop shivering. I shouldn’t be shivering.

“But the Killers,” Jay continues. He sounds a little fake, but I can’t place why. “When we left the House of Blues, we kept trying to hop the Red line, but you kept singing in the damn street.”

“’I got soul but I’m not a soldier,’” I sing. It’s out of tune, and Jay picks me up. Why the hell is he picking me up? “Where… where are we going?”

“Listen. Will seems to think you’ve gotten yourself a serious case of pneumonia, which isn’t surprising since you really aren’t used to the cold anymore. So, you need to stop opening your windows when it’s negative ten, okay?”

“Jay, it’s so hot outside.”

“Is this the PTSD or the fever?” Jay asks, exasperated.

“I couldn’t even tell you,” Will adds. “Just get her in the water.”

Jay lowers me into lukewarm water. I’m suddenly freezing. I’m shivering, I’m in the tub, and I’m tired. I’m really, really tired. Was it the PSTD or the fever, Jay had asked. I can’t stop shaking. I can’t. Will says something to me. I can’t hear him, I can’t hear him at all, I know he’s saying something but I can’t—

I blink, and the two of them look over me, concerned; Will holds a wet rag to my head, and Jay looks like he may kill me. I may die already, but he may kill me first.

“What… what happened?”

“You passed out,” Will says, but his face is still hazy. I want to close my eyes again, but he puts the thermometer back in my mouth.

“103. It’s working.”

“I’m so cold,” I whisper. He slips it from my lips. Leaning my head against the edge of the tub, the cold ceramic only makes my head pound even more. I can’t even bring myself to move. All I want to do is sleep.

I start to drift, but I hear Will saying not to. I’m so tired. I’m so cold. I want to sleep. But each time I look at the two of them, my vision starts to clear. I don’t know how long we’ve been there, but Jay gets up. The haziness fades.

“When did you start to feel sick?” I try to focus on Will. He’s still wearing his scrubs. He must have just gotten off work.

“Tuesday morning. I was out Monday night. It was so damn cold. I thought… I thought it was just a cold, but it just kept… it kept getting worse.”

Jay returns with a bottle of Gatorade. That’s literally all I’ve got in my fridge right now. “Is this okay?”

“Not ideal, but good enough,” Will says as Jay opens it and puts it in my hand.

“Drink it. You’re dehydrated.” I do as I’m told, but only because they’re both sitting on my floor as I sit in my pajamas in my tub.

“Why’d you come over?”

“I hadn’t heard from you in days,” Jay says.

“I’m exhausted and didn’t want to go all the way home,” Will says, rubbing his eyes.

“Instead you’ve gotta deal with… with me,” I say, coughing. “My chest hurts.”

“That’s from the pneumonia,” Will articulates. “Not from anything else, Kate.”

“We need to talk about that,” Jay says. “Kate, you need to see someone about this.”

“About what?”

Jay sighs heavily. “The flashbacks. Your PTSD.”

“No. No, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re definitely not fine,” Jay states.

“I just need time. It’s been only a few months, Jay, please. I’ll be… I’ll be fine.”

They both share a long, quiet look. Soon, my fever goes down enough for me to stagger in my bathrobe to my room and change my clothes. It still feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest, and I’ve been run over by a car, but the flashback has dissipated yet again. This was the worst since Landstuhl.

When I open the door, Will leans against it, looking worried. He furrows his brow hard when he’s worried. He’s done it since we were kids.

“How you doin’?”

“Not good.”

“You should have called me.”

“And said what?”

“You were sick.”

“I didn’t realize it until now.”

“Why, because you were in a full-blown flashback? How long has this been going on?”

“It’s just been a few times,” I lie, slipping into my bed and pulling up my covers to my chin. I want more blankets, but I know that Will won’t allow it. Something about my fever.

“Will you please get medical help? I know someone you can talk to. Dr. Charles at the hospital—”

“It’ll get better, I promise,” I whisper, already exhausted and falling asleep.

“You are so damn stubborn,” I hear Will mutter as I crash.

* * *

**January 31, 2016**   
**1332 Hours**   
**1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago**   
**Mouse**

This was all Jay’s idea. I can’t tell her, that’s for sure; she’ll kill Jay for even saying a word to me about it. All I know is that Jay and Will found her nearly unconscious on the floor of her own apartment, her windows open, and her cold from Tuesday had warped into full blown pneumonia.

This girl has zero luck. And it’s partially my fault. I took her out Monday night.

I head up her back stairs and knock on the door. After what feels like ages, I hear a yell, but she sounds hoarse—“It’s open!”

I step inside to her kitchen, so I set the bag of groceries on her counter top before heading to her living room. She’s wrapped in a fleece blanket, watching her beat up television with as much fervor as she can manage. It's the Hawks game from earlier this week—I don't have the heart to tell her we lost quite yet.

"That's right. Kane, my boy. Showtime," she mutters under her breath. "Where's my fight?"

"He doesn't get into one this game, sorry," I finally say, and she double takes at me.

“Mouse. Oh. I didn’t know—“ she clears her throat, but her voice mostly disappears when she tries again. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Sylvie was going to come over and check on you, but she got caught up on something and asked if Jay could come over, but he was busy too,” I ramble. “Have you eaten today?”

She blankly looks at me. She’s paler than normal, which is really saying a lot, and her hair sits in a messy bun on top of her head. She doesn’t even seem like she cares. I sure don’t. “What day is it?”

“Sunday? Sunday afternoon?”

“Then no.”

I groan, take off my coat, and look at her fridge. She’s got something leftover in a Styrofoam box, half a bottle of wine, and a six pack of Gatorade.

“How are you even living?”

“I’m not,” she wheezes.

“Fair enough.” I start unloading what I brought, and I kind of wish I had brought more now that I’ve looked at her fridge. It’s sad, really, but I’ll make do. I dig around in her kitchen drawers to find what I need, push up my sleeves, wash my hands, and start cutting carrots. It takes her about three minutes to wander into the kitchen, still wrapped in her blanket, to see what I’m doing. I’m already drawing cold water so I can slice the onions.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, slice the onions in cold water. Doesn’t make you cry.”

“Who taught you that?”

“My grandma. She taught me this recipe.” I gesture with my knife.

“You’re cooking for me,” she states. It’s not a question, but she totally doesn’t understand.

“Yeah. You have no food, and you’re not going to get better if you don’t eat.”

“You’re cooking for me,” she repeats, like she can’t figure it out.

I hide my smile from her by turning around and throwing the onions into the frying pan. I let that go while looking through her cupboards.

“You’ve got a big pot right?” I say after I look for a minute.

“I was seeing if you’d get frustrated and ask.”

“Where is it?”

She points to the cabinet next to the stove, so I grab it then start throwing everything in it—the carrots, parsley, celery, leeks, onions, bay leaves, allspice, onion, and chicken—then add water and let it sit.

“What even is this?” She asks, holding onto the kitchen chair.

“Rosół z kury.”

“Bless you.”

“Chicken broth.”

“You could have said chicken broth. How long until…” She’s already breathless. “’Til it’s done?”

“You can’t rush these things. Then I have to put in the pasta,” I say, crossing my arms. She just nods, clutching onto the chair. She tries to focus her eyes, but I see her trying to breathe and it’s like she’s trying too hard.

“Kate…?”

Nodding, she looks down at the floor, wavering. “I’m fine. I’m…fine.”

I start to approach her, and she lets me put my arm around her waist to lead her back to the couch. “You’re not fine. You should lay back down.”

In fact, she takes one look at me, nods wordlessly, the color nearly completely drained from her face. She seems to try to find her balance, but she just manages to lean into me, her hand on my chest.

"Alright, we're done here," I mutter before she starts to drop. I pick her up, and it's easier than I would admit. She's been sick for too long. Once I carry her to her bed and get her laying down, she finally looks up at me with tired eyes. I know the witty rejoinder is coming.

“You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re sicker than you think.”

“We probably shouldn’t have stayed out until one a.m. in the negative ten windchill.”

“I think it was two a.m. by the time I got home, and it was negative twelve.”

She shivers, so I pull her blanket up to her neck. When I go to leave, though, she grabs my hand. “You don’t have to… do you have to sit in the kitchen?”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. “I… I can stay here.”

She inches over, and I sit on the edge of her bed. She makes it clear it’s not good enough for her, so I kick off my boots and lean on the headboard, and she immediately rests her head against my chest.

“That’s better.”

“I’m your personal body pillow now?”

“Yeah. Yes, you are. Just don’t move. Ever.”

“Is this the pneumonia or you talking?”

She tries to talk, and she wheezes in the meantime. Instead of a response, she sighs, nearly collapsing against me. I put my arm around her, and it just seems to draw her closer. I brush the hair back from her face, and hope to God she can't hear my pounding heart.

“I did have a lot of fun the other night. I’m sorry you got sick. Maybe… maybe you can try to teach me to skate when we don’t have to break in some place.”

“Anything,” she murmurs, and I strain to hear her as she falls asleep. “Anything you want.”


	6. Your life, held in low regard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KC tries to make her own amends at District 21, but it doesn't end well. When they try again at Dawson's boxing gym and KC loses control, she puts the last nail in their relationship's coffin.

**February 4, 2016**   
**1547 Hours**   
**Chicago Police Department, District 21**   
**KC**

I wander into the precinct, still a bit wary, but finally healthy enough to make some amends. I wield my tote bag, tight on my arm, but it’s too big for it to not catch Sergeant Platt’s notice.

“KC! KC, c’mere.”

She actually remembers my name this time. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing at this point, but I weave my way to the front desk.

“You want upstairs?” She asks, casually eyeing my bag.

“Yes, ma’am. If you could call someone down.”

“Whatchya got there?” Roman says.

I turn and see Kim Burgess—we’ve talked a few times since the accident—and her partner. Roman. He’s being nosy and she just glares at him.

“I don’t want everyone else here thinking you’re getting preferential treatment,” I say, looking around suspiciously, then reaching into my tote, popping open the Tupperware, and slipping a pair of chocolate chip cookies into first the Sergeant’s hands, then Roman’s, then Kim’s. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind, and Kim nearly giggles.

“Oh, Cavanagh. You’re good. You’re good,” Trudy mutters, successfully shielding her cookies from view. “Halstead’s on his way down,” she adds between bites.

I make my way to the stairway landing about the same time as Jay gets to the gate and pushes it open for me.

“What’re you doin’ here? Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, I’m feeling better,” I say, trying to hide my cough from him. Hey, I never said I was completely better. Just… getting there. “I have presents.”

We make it up to the top of the stairs, and I drum my fingers across Mouse’s desk. He doesn’t notice right away because of his head set, so I zip past him and to the break room. Jay sidles up next to me, trying to peek into the bag. I push him back with my hip, and Erin nearly snorts her coffee.

“Can you shut off your attack dog?” I ask her, but she just shrugs at me.

“Hey. He does what he wants. And right now, he wants those cookies.”

I literally throw one at him, just to shut him up, and I hear a grating, husky voice.

“What’s goin’ on in here—“

I haven’t met him yet. God, I know enough about him, between Jay and Erin and Mouse. I immediately straighten, and I feel my hands settle on the small of my back.

“Sir.”

“You must be Kate Cavanagh,” he says, eyeing me without even trying to hide it.

“Yes, sir.”

He reaches out to shake my hand, and I do, quickly, before settling back into my stance.

“This is Sergeant Hank Voight,” Jay adds, although he knows I already know. It’s easier if Voight doesn’t know that I know who he is.

“Heard a lot about you. Ever consider being a cop?”

“Oh? Oh, no, sir. I’ve—uh, I wouldn’t pass the physical exam. Wouldn’t be eligible. Not yet, at least.”

Erin slips behind him, dropping a hand first on Voight’s shoulder, and he gives her a single nod as she leaves. He practically adopted her, I know that much. They’re close, and I can feel it. It’s palpable.

“Jay says you’re a Vet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t—relax, Cavanagh.”

I suddenly realize I’ve fallen into parade rest and shake out my hands behind my back. Damn. I still have a problem with authority. But Voight does scare the living fuck out of me.

“So you’ve known Jay a long time, yeah?”

“Yes, sir. My whole life.”

“I’m sorry,” he harrumphs, finally slipping past the two of us to get coffee. “I’m sure he was a difficult kid.”

“Oh, very. Awful. The things I could tell you…” Jay punches my arm as I drift off. Voight actually harrumphs a noise close to a laugh. He turns around and looks at the table and the approximately six dozen cookies. “Did you bring my unit… chocolate chip cookies?”

“Yes, sir. I hope that’s okay.”

He looks at me, then picks up a cookie, bites into it, and nods. “It’s okay.”

Once he brushes past both of us, I exhale heavily. “Holy shit. That was fucking tense. Is he always like that?”

“Keep your voice down,” Jay mutters, nonchalantly grabbing another cookie. I think he stress eats like, four. “But yes, it’s always tense. You should have heard him when he found out about me and Erin.”

“’I’m not mad, I’m disappointed,’” I say, mocking his gravelly voice. Jay nearly chokes on his cookie.

“Listen up!” The gravely voice continues in the bull pen. I stay out of the way while Jay heads further into the room. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I do anyway. Bad habits die hard.

“Our guy’s expanding,” he says, slamming a photo onto their murderboard (as Mouse has affectionately named it), “He’s moved into the First District. And guess what? They don’t have any physical evidence either. Find some!”

He storms into his office and I’m finally seeing the extent of his rage. With the door slammed shut, the rest of the detectives look at each other like students that just got annihilated by the teacher.

“Does anyone have… anything?” Dawson says, addressing the room like the good cop in the routine.

Ruzek raises his hand. “I’ve cross referenced all the girls. They’ve got no connection so far. We can’t find any reason other than he randomly chooses his victims.”

“No crossing on any forms of social media,” Mouse speaks up. He makes eye contact with me, and tilts his head, confused, but continues without missing a beat. “I’m running facial recognition on… well, anything I can find in the areas of the abductions.”

I look at the murderboard, over the maps, over the photos. It’s unnerving but sadly nothing I’ve never seen before. Dawson echoes the urge to find something, and before they zip off I clear my throat.

“Cookies in the break room,” I announce quickly. Ruzek nearly vaults his desk trying to get there, but God, something looks funny about these maps. I know I really don’t have the authority, but I stride over to Mouse’s desk.

“Hey, do you have a map marked with each abduction location and the site of the body?”

“You really shouldn’t have access to that information,” Mouse says, typing something into his computer. I watch as he brings up the maps anyway.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m not going to tell you no, because that’s just ridiculous,” he adds, spinning in his chair and grabbing the print outs with a lopsided grin.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I harrumph, taking the maps out of his hand. “Have you cross referenced all the abduction sites and the body locations?”

“Well, of course, that’s kind of our job,” he says, “But what are you seeing that we aren’t?”

“Are you connecting them?”

“What do you mean, connecting them?”

“The body locations and where these girls are last seen. It just looks… just give me a second.” I snatch a highlighter from his desk and the ruler from his pile of garbage and start connecting lines. I try to find the best route from one to the other, and once I get them all connected, I nearly fall over myself trying to get to Jay.

“Jay! Jay, look at this.” I flop the map in front of him, and he grazes it, then looks at it with wider eyes. Jay holds up the map. “Hey! Look at this, guys. Kate connected the maps from point A to point B—“

“We did that,” Atwater interrupts.

“She did it from the best walking distance,” he says. “If the killer was walking from where the person was last seen to where the body was found, this is approximately what route he would take. He’s got to be a local. And the lines? They all intersect somewhere on the UIC campus.”

The room immediately shifts. The speed increases, the computers whirr, and Jay, his face now concerned, ushers me into the break room. I expect him to give me a quiet compliment, but he immediately crosses his arms.

“I want you to keep a low profile. Be careful. If there’s someone lurking the UIC campus…”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to protect me?”

He grabs a cookie and starts gnawing at it. “Yes, Kate. I’m trying to protect you. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“Jesus, Jay, I could kick your ass ev—“

He glares at me. “That’s not the point. I don’t care what you can do with me. We don’t know who this guy is, but we do know what he’s capable of. So I don’t care if you think you can take care of yourself, I still want you to watch your back.”

I feel the heat rising on my chest. Is he really going there right now?

“How many years did you spend in the Rangers?”

He starts shaking his head. “Dammit, Kate—“

“I was overseas for how many years?” I say, stepping closer to him. “How long did I have to deal with this on my own? Hmm? I can handle myself,” I articulate. “And by the way—you’re so very welcome for breaking your Goddamn case.”

“Dammit, Kate," he repeats.

I start backing out of the break room, and he beckons me in, trying to keep a lid on this, trying to keep me quiet but I can’t anymore. I can’t, and I won’t. I give him answers, I give him a lead, and he tries to tell me to be careful. Before he can convince me to stay, I turn around and make my way to the stairs. I want out of here. I want to just get the fuck out before anyone else can say anything to me—

“Kate, are you okay?”

I whirl on the stairs, and Mouse saunters down to the landing—that place between Intelligence and the main booking area that seems to be in a liminal space.

“What?! What. What do you want?” I whisper through my teeth. He takes a step back, nearly tripping on the step.

“Jesus. What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Saying it three times in a row must mean it’s nothing, right?”

“I have no need for your sarcasm right now,” I snap. I don’t need this from him, too.

“I—I wasn’t being sarcastic—“

“I’m gonna go, okay? I’m just gonna leave and—and let you all get back to your case.”

He nods, and for the first time, he actually looks tired. “Kate, can you—can you just be careful out there?”

I find myself facepalming. “Not you too.”

“What—“

“What is with you guys? I can handle myself. I can do it. You of all people—actually, both of you—should understand the fact that I can do this! I’m not woefully incapable of taking care of myself!”

“I’m just worried abou—“

“About me being kidnapped? About me being involved in this case? What? What? Don’t you think I can do this myself?”

Erin leans down the stairs. “Hey, Mouse, we need you.”

He looks back to me, tentatively, worried, confused.

“Go. Just go.”

“Kate—“ He says to my turned back. I leave, not sure why I’m crying.

* * *

**February 6, 2016**   
**0932 Hours**   
**Dawson's Boxing Gym, East Pilsen**   
**KC**

Erin holds the door open to the boxing ring for me, and I clutch my coffee close, trying to wake up before we do this. Our breakfast date was extremely necessary, I felt; I had been out of commission for so long, we hadn’t gotten in our weekly chat. Well, chat is a strong word. It’s more of silently eat while we mutter one or two words or phrases about our lives. And now we’re planning on beating the shit out of each other.

I still can’t believe I did what I did. The pneumonia… Mouse. Everything. I shouldn’t have let myself get this weak, and it won’t happen again.

I’m glad to be in the ring. I’m glad to fight Erin. I know it’s not her fault, but the brief line of questioning at breakfast could only have meant one thing: she and Jay were discussing… well, everything.

I haven’t talked to Jay since the shit show in the precinct.

“When’s the last time you were in the ring?” She asks, eyeing me as I finish my travel coffee in one large gulp.

“I can’t even remember. Sometime between active duty, probably,” I say, pulling my wrist wraps out of my bag and starting to wind them around my hands.

“You do anything in high school?”

“Professionally, athletically, or extracurricularly?”

She chuckles once. “How many asses did you kick?”

I pull my hair back in a ponytail. “Tucker Boys. Jimmy Doyle got it a few times. He beat the shit out of Ginger a lot. I punched him square in the mouth once, broke some knuckles.”

“Ginger.”

“Exactly who you think.”

“As in—“

“Ginger Spice, yeah.”

“Did Jay have a nickname?” She asks slyly, slipping into the ring.

“Sorry, no. Nothing as spectacular as Ginger Spice.” I follow her lead, picking out my own corner.

“Rules? How rough are you going to be?”

“I was the unofficial enforcer on my hockey team in high school.”

She bounces on the balls of her feet. “Unofficial? Did you make that distinction?”

“So what if I liked to fight? These girls were not fit to be playing ice hockey.”

“First blood, then, as usual?”

I shake my head. “How about first knockout?”

She slips in her mouth guard, shaking her head but seemingly approving of my terms. I get my mouth guard in just with barely enough time to spare before she swings. I duck, fast, and sweep around her. She whirls, much faster than me, and tries to take my legs out from under me. Forearm block, forearm block—hard—I grab her wrist, flip her around me, and I bounce away from her pulling herself off the mat.

She shrugs the fall away from her shoulders and comes at me, full force, again, this time, with full on boxing swings. Erin lands one on my side, and I try to move with her punch, but the hit jars my entire chest.

I bounce off the ropes and back at her. We circle the ring. I’m on the other side suddenly, away from my eyes on the door, and she looks over my shoulder, distracted. I knock a right hook across her chin, knocking her down on her hands.

I hear a distinctive “ooohhhh” behind me, as she gets to her feet. When I turn around, Jay starts applauding slowly.

“Are you just gonna take that?” He says to Erin. In my peripheral, I see her try to come at me from behind, at my neck. She makes it, but I grab hard on her arms and flip her over my head until she lands on the mat, bouncing.

“Shit, man,” Jay breathes, “You got better.”

“Get in here and find out.” I’m eager to fight him. Maybe too eager.

“Be my guest,” Erin says, slipping out from under the ropes and high fiving Jay. While she strolls away, she points at Antonio, sitting at his desk. “You saw nothing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Antonio says, not looking up from his computer.

Jay starts wrapping his hands, and I lean on the ropes, catching my breath.

“You gonna tell me I can’t take care of myself today, too?”

“Jesus Christ, Kate. When are you going to let that go?”

“When you believe it.”

“Hey-o!”

As the door opens, both Ruzek and Atwater waltz in. Just what I need right now, when I’m about to punch the shit out of Jay.

“What’s goin’ down here?” Atwater asks, pointing to me in the ring.

“A general asskicking,” Erin says.

“She’s challenging Jay?” Ruzek says with a little more disbelief than I would like. I’m so amped at this point, I point at him.

“You comin’ into the ring?”

“Are you throwin’ down a challenge?”

I crack my knuckles in response. I settle back into the ropes testing the bounce. With what little I know about Ruzek, I know he’s not going to turn down a fight.

Jay immediately steps back. “Alright, looks like you’re gonna kick Ruzek’s ass first.”

“You just want to give yourself more time before I kick your ass,” I snap. “Hey, maybe this’ll prove it to you.”

“Let. It. Go.”

“Just let me have this moment.”

“Oh, this is going to be more for me than for you,” Jay says, holding back the ropes for Ruzek. He gets into the ring and I survey him. Lankier than Jay, but tall; probably a lower center of balance. Definitely way too cocky for this.

He circles me for a minute, but he’s just posturing. Jay, Erin, Atwater, and Antonio all approach the ring to watch, and Ruzek gives them a head nod, looking away from me, grinning. I take my chance to throw a hard right hook to his chin. It doesn’t knock him down, but he definitely reels, and the crowd we’ve gathered makes an audible noise.

Ruzek shifts his jaw, then puts up his hands. We circle the ring. He stands almost too forward, too square. He’s going to be straightforward, coming at me offensively rather than defensively. So I go on the defensive. He starts throwing punches, but I block them with my forearms or let them go over my head entirely.

Until I spot it. A weak spot in his throw. He doesn’t protect his side at all. Well, he doesn’t protect anything, he just swings like your typical white boy cop. I slam my fist into his side, and he buckles a little. I use the time to get behind him, kick his knee so he drops to the ground. I drive my knee into his side, and he tries to spin, but I put my entire body weight on the small of his back. It’s not quite enough, and he nearly throws me off, but I hook my legs around his waist and pull him into a choke hold. I clutch on as he tries to get me off, but as soon as he starts to weaken, I let go, much to his chagrin.

His partners clap, and I take a bow. Once Ruzek manages to get up, he shakes my hand.

“Ever think about bein’ a cop?”

“And embarrass you every day? Nah.”

Ruzek jumps out of the ring, looking a little more in pain than when he arrived, and I lean on the ropes, looking out on my audience.

“Anyone else?”

“Hell no,” Atwater says. “I am not getting my ass handed to me by the scary Irish chick.”

“That’s Captain Scary Irish Chick to you, Atwater.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jay actually seems to be considering it again, even after the show with Ruzek. He throws his phone to Erin, who takes it, reads something on the screen, and raises an eyebrow at Jay.

“If I win, will you get the hell off my back?”

“Depends,” I say, wiping my mouth. Even with my mouth guard, I wipe away blood. Probably from my lip. “Fine. I agree to your terms, Halstead.”

I give him a hand stepping around the ropes, and we’re back in the ring together again.

“Been a while since we’ve fought,” he says.

“High school. And typically on the same side.”

“Remember when you beat the shit out of the Tuckers?”

“How in the hell could I forget?” I say.

“You knocked Brian unconscious!”

“You nearly suffocated Andrew, so you have no room to talk.”

“All I know is Ginger got back up,” I say.

He swings at me slowly, and it’s not hard for me to dodge. We’re just getting warmed up.

Erin harrumphs, pulling up a chair, seemingly done with her own workout. Ruzek crosses his arms, and I feel his eyes boring into us. He’s suddenly very interested in what’s about to happen.

“I’m resisting the urge to sing the _Boondock Saints_ theme.”

“Shut up, this is about to get bloody,” Atwater says to Ruzek.

I throw a few test punches at him. He blocks me.

“You still angle too much with your stance.”

“You still dance like a giant slab of brick.”

I slam my knee into his side like I did Ruzek, and he doesn’t catch me, but he does throw his elbow into the side of my face. I shake it off. I can shake it off. He moves slowly, purposefully, while I find myself bouncing in anticipation of his next throw. I hear the door open but ignore it for fear of ruining my concentration. Besides, I’m pissed at Jay.

I throw my left fist at his face, then counter his block with my right. This one makes contact, but it also throws my center of gravity off balance. It gives him just enough time to grab me, swipe my arm around and pin it behind my back.

He pushes me to my knees, like he would when arresting someone, and I try to fight back, but I gasp for breath. I haven’t quite been the best since the pneumonia, and probably should have waited to engage in such roughhousing, but I can’t change that now. I try not to groan, I try to ignore the pain in my shoulder, but I notice Jay’s stopped and loosened his grip.

“You okay?” He lets me go and press a hand to my shoulder. It burns like hell. My lungs burn like hell. They burn like sand, and I try to push it away. “Maybe we should stop.”

I look out past his shoulder, to our audience, and see the newest arrival. He doesn’t have boxing gear. He settles in between Erin and Ruzek, giving me a tentative little wave.

We haven’t talked since the precinct either. I circle Jay until I have my back to them. “You invited Mouse.”

He smirks. “It’s a 50/50 shot of motivating you or distracting you.”

“Square the fuck up, dude.” That was the last straw. He thinks he knows what’s best, but he has no idea. He literally has no idea.

His smile drops. “Okay, this backfired.”

“Why the fuck did you bring him into this?” I hiss. “You need to stop meddling.”

“Meddling is what got you two together in the first place, yeah?” He whispers.

“Together? You think we’re together?”

He drops his hands. “You’re not? What the hell are you waiting for?”

I’m sure as hell not waiting for him to get his hands back up. I throw a punch, he leans back away from it. I throw another and it connects. I turn away from him, and I know it’s not smart, but he grabs for my shoulders. I catch my balance, reach up, then spin on him, smashing my elbow to his face.

He doesn’t like that very much, so he tries again, because I don’t get out of the way. This time, he gets a real choke hold on me. I spin, I grab his hips and drag him down to the mat. I pin him with my legs tight around his waist, like I did with Ruzek, and he tries to flip me, but all he can do at this point is block my flying punches. But before I realize it, I’m skidding across the mat, and I feel the searing pain in my shoulder again. In my lungs again. I accept the mat for a second, trying to get rid of my vertigo.

I try to get up, but my arms shake on my own weight.

“C’mon, Kate,” I hear him say. I hear Mouse say. He’s known Jay longer than me. He should be rooting for Jay.

“So. What’s the deal with you and Mouse?” Jay says, leaning down to me, whispering to me.

I know what he’s really asking. What’s stopping me from falling for Mouse? My own damn pride. My own fucking emotional instability. You know what? You’re fine. Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s a natural response to the shit that’s happened. It’s going to go away and you’re going to be back to normal in a little while.

“Nothing,” I say, gasping for more air. I cough, hard, and everything hurts. “There’s nothing.”

“Are you okay, Kate?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” I say, rolling onto my back. I close my eyes. I hear gun fire.

“You sure?” Jay says. I open my eyes. He does look concerned. He looks disappointed. I’m not sure what he’s asking me about—Mouse or my own physical state.

So I raise my fists one more time.

Jay chuckles. “Nah, you’re done. You’re done.”

“We’re not done until one of us goes down for good.”

“Dammit. You’re an idiot.”

“You’re a dick.”

Erin calls from the other side of the ring. “KC, tap out.”

I ignore both of them, swinging at Jay. He blocks my weak ass punches. He blocks them as I back him into a corner. I’ll be fine. I’m fine. It’s not that hard to breathe. I can hear my own breath, I can hear my heart beat in my ears as I think I pummel him. The whole floor tilts. I close my eyes tight, and when I open them, I feel my center of gravity shifting.

I wake up to a light in my eyes.

“KC, can you hear me?” I see Sylvie, and she’s not in her uniform. But she’s got her bag of tricks. She’s off duty. This is an off duty call.

Why the hell did they call Sylvie?

“What the fuck? Sylvie, why are you here?”

“She’s fine,” Jay snaps, stepping back from me. I’m on the floor, with my back against the wall. How did I get here?

Dazed, I don’t say anything except answer the questions Sylvie asks as she checks my vitals, then bandages the mat burn on my shoulder and wrist before helping me up. When I look down, I see two fingers on my right hand are already splinted.

I thank her, but I’m still dizzy. I probably shouldn’t have done what I did. I probably shouldn’t have done any of this.

She speaks low to Erin and Jay. I can’t hear her. Instead, I try to pull myself to my feet. It’s worse than it should be.

He scratches his head. I haven't talked to him since the precinct, either. “Are you doing okay? You kind of lost it a little.”

“This is a little bit of a bad time,” I say, brushing past Mouse to get to my stuff. I’m still dizzy. “Did Jay text you? Is that it? I don’t get it with you two. I feel like there’s this fucking vendetta against me.”

“Woah. Take it back for a second, yeah? So Jay texted me. I was in the area. What’s the big deal?”

“Both of you need to let me live my life,” I say, gasping for breath. “And you. Stop… both of you stop trying to force me into something I’m not ready for.”

“I thought…” he scratches the back of his head. “I don’t get it. You seemed fine with it the other night.”

“I was half conscious with pneumonia,” I say. “Listen, both of you.” I raise my voice. “Stop. Just… just stop.”

“Stop what? Caring about you?” Mouse says, stepping towards me.

I’m done. I’m done with all of this, so I brush past him, heading for the door of the facility. I’m out and into the cold air before any of them can call after me.

I don’t have to worry about people calling after me. Instead, Mouse follows me.

“Kate. Kate! Stop.”

“I do not need your pity. I do not need you to follow me out of a place because you think I want you to. I do not need you to pretend I’m okay. I mean—no. I am okay. I am fine. I’ve been fine. I’m fine without all this bullshit. I’m sick of people pretending to walk on glass around me. I don’t need it. Do you understand me? I don’t need this. I don’t want this.”

He tries to be patient. I can see it in his face. “What, people caring about you? Kate, that’s what’s happening right now, and you don’t even have a clue—“

“Oh, I have a clue. This is the last time I let something like this happen.”

He doesn’t follow me.


	7. Leave the rest at arm’s length

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the throes of flashbacks and regret, KC finally caves and visits Dr. Charles at Gaffney Medical Center.

**February 8, 2016**  
**0812 Hours**  
**1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago**  
**KC**

The world tips. It’s all sand. I’m in an hourglass, and the sand dumps itself on top of me, suffocating me, piling over me.

I pull myself out. I have to pull myself out, but it keeps coming. I can’t get out of it. I can’t run, because I’m surrounded by glass. I can’t see out of it, like it’s a two-way mirror. I bet someone’s watching on the other side. Someone has to be watching on the other side.

“Kate, wake up.” The voice taps on the glass. He’s muffled. He’s insistent. I don’t listen. “Kate!”

I jump at the gunshot yell, and it splinters the glass. It shatters. Sand everywhere. Glass everywhere. I cough, I sputter, I try to catch my breath but it’s all shards and grainy pain. When I pull myself out of the sandbank, I touch my chest. It burns, and I shouldn’t have touched it. It’s sand, blood, I’m shot again. I’m bleeding again—

“Kate!”

I cower, I realize I’m cowering, why am I cowering? Why… why am I crying?

I sob into scrubs, I clutch tightly onto Will, who smells like sweat and blood and hospital beds. I clutch to him until my chest hurts from crying.

“Something tells me it’s not just the dream bothering you.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do, Will, all I’ve got are my flashbacks and you guys. I’ve got nothing. What am I even doing here? What do I think I’m doing? None of this is right.”

“And what triggered this line of thinking?” He asks quietly, pushing my hair back from my face.

I look at my splinted fingers. He immediately catches on, looks at them, and sighs at me.

“Kate…”

“I know. I know, I have… I have issues. I get it. I just… let me figure it out, okay? Let me—let me fix this.”

Will shrugs, letting go of me. I check my phone, and I realize I have to get to class. I try to say something to him, but he just walks out, he huffs out, into the other room. I’m assuming he’s going to crash for a few hours. I can’t think about that now. I get dressed and head to class.

This has got to stop. That’s for sure. But I don’t know how to make it stop. It should be easier than this.

But Jay—

Dammit, Jay. Why does he always have to do this? It’s not the first time, that’s for sure. He always pushes a little too hard, a little too far. The first couple kids wander into my classroom, open their books for discussion.

“What page does that chapter start on?” I ask one in the front row. She tells me, and I realize I haven’t even come up with a lesson plan. It’s something about Mycenaean Greece. I can do this. I can totally wing this. Once they all settle down and open their books, I immediately start going through the reading. Going through the motions. Is this what I want?

Why am I so upset about people caring about me?

“You okay, Cap?”

I jolt, the voice bringing me back to reality. “Um, yeah. I’m—I’m fine. Where—where was I?”

“Government and military structure?” Someone offers in the middle of the room.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” I blink, trying to clear my head, but nothing seems to work. I feel like I’m drifting, and I’m in front of a packed classroom. Packed classroom, beams falling down. Tight space, blood dripping—

I pull my chair towards me and slide into it, dizzy. I hear myself speak before I really understand what I’m saying. “Read… read the next chapter for next class. Class dismissed.”

A few of them immediately leave, while most of them slowly mill out. The one girl from the back—the one I sent on the trip for coffee a while ago—asks me if I’m okay, but I gently dismiss her. The one kid—I think his name is Cian, I'm still learning—from before, the one who’s dad was in Iraq, tells her to go get me a water from the machine after handing her a dollar or two.

“Hey, Cap. You doin’ alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I whisper. I try to tell him no, shake my head, but he holds out a hand to let him finish.

“We’re gonna call someone for you, okay?”

The girl—Olivia. That’s her name—tosses Cian a water bottle, and he hands it to me. She’s got someone in tow. It’s… Cutler. Robert Cutler. What was he doing in the history building?

“Kaitlyn, are you alright?”

I lean my elbows on my thighs and hold my head in my hands. I’ve got to find a way out of this, I have to—

“Breathe, Kaitlyn. Breathe.” He gently touches my hands, bringing them from my face, and gestures towards my water bottle. “Please.”

I take a shaky drink, and he dismisses the students, leaving us in a blissfully quiet lecture hall.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” I say, taking a drink.

“I’ve been around. Heard you’re doing well. Didn’t think I would see this. Has this been happening often?”

“Too often.”

“Are you seeking help?”

"No. Yes, kind of. I’m not sure…”

“Is there someone I could call for you?” He asks.

I pull my phone from my pocket, nodding. “Will. Uh, Will Halstead.”

I don’t really catch most of the conversation. I’m not sure what I think about, to be honest.

“Is that okay?”

I blink, I try to focus. What was he saying? I lost time again, didn’t I? God dammit. Not again. He can’t know. He can’t know—

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“He asked if you could get to Gaffney. Dr. Charles is waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. I’ll get over there. Yeah. Right now. I… I have to cancel my classes…”

“Already sent them an email,” Robert says, giving me a tentative smile and handing over my phone. “Are you sure you can go on your own? Do you need help? I can help you."

“Yeah. Yes, I can. I'm fine,” I say, standing up. I’m still dizzy. God, why am I so dizzy?

He places a balancing hand on my elbow, helping me to make myself more stable, then nods once. “Okay. If you need help, will you let me know? I can cancel my classes.”

“I—I don’t have your number.”

He chuckles. “I put it in your phone,” he says, letting go of me. “I hope… I hope you get this sorted out.”

“Me too,” I add.

"I can help you, you know," he repeats before leaving.

* * *

**February 8, 2016**  
**1104 Hours**  
**Gaffney Chicago Medical Center**  
**KC**

I slip in through the emergency department and wander up to the nurses’ station, but everyone seems to be in chaos. I don’t know what is going on, but it doesn’t look good. I find myself pulling my dog tags out from under my shirt and twisting them in my fingers.

The first person I see not wearing scrubs looks like he’s been here for days, looking at his stubblish beard. In fact, he was too good looking to be a doctor, in my opinion.

“Can I help you?” He asks me, and I don’t know if I look tired or confused or something, but his harsher expression softens.

“I’m looking for Dr. Charles?” I ask quietly, dropping my hand. I don’t want to look too crazy.

“Oh. Sure. Do you want me to call him down, or…?”

“Just—where’s his office?”

He points down the hallway. “Go left at the end of the hallway, then hit the elevators, then…”

I don’t hear much else. I hear someone screaming. It makes me jump. I hear a heart monitor. He keeps speaking, I think, but all I hear is a screaming monitor. Someone yells something about Baghdad. I see them drag in someone on a gurney, bloody, broken, a gunshot wound? This isn't Baghdad. This isn't the Sandbox.

“Hey. Hello—“

I jolt at his touch on my arm. I try to breathe through the panic, but I just sound even worse than I hope. “Sorry. Sorry, um, could you—could you repeat that?”

He just looks at me with a more caring look than I expect. “I’ll just show you.”

“You don’t… it’s fine.”

He gestures again towards the hall. “I’m Connor, by the way.”

“Is that Connor spelled with an M.D.?” I know the name. Connor Rhodes. The guy Will hates. He chuckles. I don’t. After a quiet trip to the elevator, and an even quieter time stepping inside, he speaks again.

“You’re Will’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Didn’t know he talked about me.”

“Not to me,” he harrumphs.

“Not a fan?” I ask, not looking away from the shiny elevator doors. I hate elevators. I would have rather taken the stairs.

“He and I don’t see eye to eye.”

“He’s an acquired taste.”

“You can say that again.”

“He’s an acquired taste.”

Connor laughs again, a little louder this time, as the doors open. We both start down the hallway, him half a step in front of me, and I see him eye me one more time.

“You a Vet?”

I don’t respond. I’m not ready to open that can of worms with someone new. Instead, I do the most obvious confirmation possible: I slip my dog tags under my shirt. But thankfully he doesn’t ask anymore. He just gestures towards an office at the end of the hall.

“Dr. Daniel Charles’ office.”

The door’s just barely ajar, but I’m not sure… I don’t know if I want to go into that door. Going in there is me admitting I have a problem. Going in there means I’m not adjusting. Means I’m not doing okay. Means a lot of different things.

“He’s a good guy. He can help,” Connor says quietly.

“Thanks for the personal escort,” I say, “Even if I’m friends with your arch-nemesis.”

“Arch-nemesis? Is that what you’re takin’ from this conversation?”

“Will and I talk.”

“Oh, really?”

He chuckles once and I leave him to it because I’ve finally gained enough courage to walk towards the door. I knock on the door frame.

“Come on in.” He seems jovial enough. When I walk in, he’s a slightly large man, slightly disheveled, slightly… just slightly. He gives me a slight grin.

“You must be KC Cavanagh. Dr. Halstead’s friend.”

“Um, yeah. He got to you quick, didn’t he?”

“Anything for a colleague. Why don’t you sit down?”

He points to a pair of chairs closer to me. There’s a couch too, but there’s no way I’m touching that. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment, so I slide into the nearest armchair.

“So what’s bothering you, KC?”

“First off, this is just a whole lot of weird for me. I—I’m not exactly sure how this is supposed to work, I—“

“Why don’t we just talk first, then?” He cuts me off, but I don’t hate his request. It would be easier to do this with someone I know a little better. “I’m Dr. Daniel Charles, I’m chief of psychiatry here. I’ve been here for…” he seems to count, then shrugs. “Several years. Went to University of Pennsylvania. How about you?”

I'm not even sure where to start. “I grew up in Chicago. With the Halsteads. Will was older, Jay was younger.”

“What’d you do after high school?”

I know he’s prying, but the lost time, the dreams, the nightmares, they all push me forward. “I went to University of Illinois. History, minors in religious studies and international studies. I was in ROTC there.”

He nods, leaning onto his chair, and genuinely asks, “You don’t necessarily seem the type. What made you join ROTC?”

“I don’t know. My family all kind of… up and left. The Halsteads went and did their thing. I guess I wanted something more? I had no real direction.”

“So you joined up after college, then?”

I look down at my hands while I talk. “Yeah, well, I joined a cultural support team. With the Army. I was an attache, working in Iraq and Afghanistan. I would, uh, talk to women there. Many weren’t allowed to talk to men, so.”

“How many years did you do that?”

“Eight,” I say, almost under my breath. “Well, almost eight. I round up.”

“Holy cow. Did you rank?”

“I was discharged as a captain, actually.”

“Captain Cavanagh has a nice ring to it.”

“It did, it did,” I say, leaning my elbow on the armrest and my head on my hand. I know what he’s doing. I’m not stupid, but I let him go. I let him do what he’s supposed to do. It’s not intrusive. Not yet.

"Where were you stationed?"

"We bounced all over. Kandahar. Baghdad. Korengal Valley. Kunar Province."

"Damn. You... you got around the Middle East, didn't you?" I know he's trying to make me laugh, but it doesn't work. I give him a smile for his troubles. “What happened to make you leave?”

And there’s the intrusive line of questioning. I sigh, I try to collect my thoughts, but I hear my voice before my brain catches up. “Medical discharge.”

“Oh, man. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

He’s not wrong, and he knows it. I take a deep breath, then I begin, knowing that once I start, I'm not going to stop. If we have to do this, we're going to get it all the way out. “I was with my unit in Nangalam. It’s a little village about 250 kilometers northeast of Kabul. Actually, I think we were closer to Pakistan. Kunar Province. anyway. I’m not really sure anymore. It’s fuzzy. I had just… it was October. I don’t know if we were even supposed to be there. I was talking to some Pashai women. I don’t know why. I can’t remember anymore, because the—the bomb.” I clear my throat, knowing the more details I give, the more he can help me. You can do this, KC. You can. Someone has to know. Someone other than… other than Mouse.

“Half my unit was killed, the other half I couldn’t—couldn’t find. Uh, the building, it collapsed. Collapsed around us. Me and the women. One of them died. We, uh, we waited. We thought help would come. I—I had tried to pull myself out, call for help, because I knew—someone had to be alive. I was sure.

“We had been there for—for a day and a half, I think. That’s when they came. ISIS, Taliban, I don’t know. I still don’t know. No one… no one knows. No one was supposed to be there, I think. We were though.

“I tried to get the women help, but—he, he shot me. I should have died. I should have, he shot me in the left shoulder. I don’t remember much else. I remember the machine gun fire. I remember someone screaming for me—‘Captain Cavanagh’.” I hear the screams, I hear the gunfire, and I soon taste the gritty sand in between my teeth. The structure falls down on me, it buries me in darkness, it buries me in pain. I taste blood in my mouth. I can see him. Tan skin, black beard. Tan turban. I shouldn’t stereotype, but I see him everywhere. Blood in my mouth, darkness. I’m in the hospital, I’m in Landstuhl, I’m bleeding out—

“KC? KC, listen to me. You’re in Chicago. You’re home.”

Like I’m traveling through a tunnel I come whooshing back, dizzy, a little sick, and confused. I’m clutching tightly to my dog tags, desperately, my hands shaking.

“Home? This place isn’t home. Nowhere is home anymore.”

“What makes you say that—“

“I can’t go back to the way I was before. I can’t. Nothing… nothing works right anymore. I have a job, I have an apartment. But why? What’s the point?”

“What’s the point? The point is, you’re safe. You’re healthy. You’re here. And most of all, you’re alive.”

“So? Those women died out there. That war is still going on and-and the President—from our own state—is pulling out troops. We have not completed our mission out there. We aren’t done. Dr. Charles, we’re not done. We can’t be done.”

“But you’re done, KC. You did what you had to do.”

“You don’t get it. I didn’t finish. I got shot. I almost died!”

“Exactly. You fulfilled your duty and survived. That’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

I shift in my seat. “You don’t—dammit, it doesn’t feel right!”

“What doesn’t feel ri—“

“I don’t deserve to come back, have all my friends, my job, my apartment, my…. My relationships… they have nothing. They all had nothing.”

“You stayed with them, didn’t you? What did you do during that day and a half?”

“I—I talked to them, I tried to calm them. We were all hurt, some more than others, but we just… I tried to ease them.”

“Then they had something. They definitely had something.”

I lean back into the armchair, spent already, frustrated, tired, and wanting to cry. “Is it always going to feel like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Depends on how hard you hit back.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. He looks like he’s just slightly smiling. “Alright, Confucius.”

“So what usually triggers your flashbacks, KC?”

“Usually they’re nightmares,” I shrug. “They’re not really from anything in particular. Just… when I try to sleep. When I’m stressed.”

“What makes you stressed?”

“When my friends try to set me up with people,” I say, too quickly, too soon. Dammit. He hears it and he’s immediately on it. “When they’re overprotective.”

“Is that a problem? Do you not want to be set up with someone?”

“I barely got back a month ago,” I begin, knowing I got myself into this mess and so I might as well just hit it all at once, “Will’s brother, Jay, he keeps trying to get me to go out with his friend… Greg. And Greg, he’s… he’s a Vet, too. We were actually all overseas around the same time. He, uh, he’s a good guy. He knows what I’ve been through. He’s… he’s damn cute. I…”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m just… I’m not ready. I’m not ready for that. I just got back. Seven and a half years, Dr. Charles. I don’t know how to adjust. I mean, I adjusted a little at Landstuhl, but that’s nothing. That’s rehab, and healing, and…”

He looks at me, and he’s got to know I’m nearly in tears. I’m stressed out just talking to him. I don’t know how this is going to work.

“Tell me more about this Greg guy.”

“What about him?”

“How does Jay know him?”

“Uh… they work together. They were in the same unit together. Jay got him his job.”

“What do you know about their personal relationship?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Hmmm,” is all he responds with, but then he also leans back into his chair. “I’d like you to come back sometime. Next week? Is that good for you?”

“I feel like I’ve done everything and nothing all at once.”

“I think you’ll find talking about it makes it feel a lot more productive,” he says, giving me his card. “Just stop by next week, alright?”

“That’s it? No drugs, no laying on the couch, no nothing?”

“I don’t want to put you on drugs,” he says. “KC, you’ve got PTSD. You’re smart enough to know that. But you’re also smart enough to beat this on your own. Why don’t you come by on Wednesday, and we’ll have a formal appointment?”

“No assignment?”

He smirks. “The only bit of advice I’m going to give is this: personal relationships aren’t bad. There’s a lot more to them than just surface attraction. Maybe there’s more to this ‘set up’ than you think.”

“I doubt it,” I say, heading towards the door, feeling not quite fulfilled but at least a little less weak. Admitting my issue seemed to help and hurt all at once.

“Just try.”


	8. Here lies the first time that I was wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KC muses on the idea that Mouse coming into her life wasn't as contrived as she thought.   
-  
A surprise visit to the precinct concerns Mouse at first, but KC's intentions are good. Very good.

**February 8, 2016**   
**1256 Hours**   
**1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago**   
**KC**

By the time I make it back to my apartment, I can’t stop thinking about the last thing Dr. Charles said to me. What the hell does that mean? Why should I poke around their history? That has to be what he means. That’s the only thing I could think of.

I wander back into the apartment and find Will curled up on the couch eating chocolate chocolate chunk ice cream out of the container whilst watching reruns of Boston EMS.

“That good of a day?” I ask, slamming myself down into the seat next to him. He stops giving the TV a judging look and hands me the remote. I channel surf for a second, then land on FX playing _Captain America_. I open my mouth, and without even missing a beat, Will feeds me ice cream.

“You look like you’ve been through the ringer. You go visit Dr. Charles?”

“Yep.”

"Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

I check my phone. I've got a text from Robert, so I quickly text him back, making sure he knows I'm okay. By the time Bucky Barnes embraces little Steve, and he asks again. “You were really freaking out earlier today, weren’t you?”

“It’s not important.”

“Yes, it is. What set you off?”

“Jay. Jay trying to set me up with Mouse. Jay being way too protective of me around this rape and murder case.”

“He cares about you. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He adjusts his position, so he can better talk to me. “We don’t hear from you in how many years?”

I try to do the math, try to remember, the post cards, the short phone calls that give no details. Years, probably. At least two years.

“The point is… he knows what you’re going through. He understands more than anyone. And he wants to help you. It’s not that he doesn’t think you can handle yourself. He’s just… he’s actually scared for once. Scared for you. Because it’s not you he’s worried about, it’s this serial killer.”

“I get that—“

“Do you?” He says, handing me the ice cream. I realize my hands have been bouncing off my leg. Regardless, I take the spoon. The coolness radiates through my mouth and he continues. “If you understood, you wouldn’t have freaked out at the precinct the other day.”

“Did he tell you—“

“He also told me you snapped at Mouse.”

I turn back to watch the television in a huff. He’s not wrong. He’s not. I just don’t want to admit it. God, why?

“It’s not like you’re not getting help now,” Will says softly.

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s the entire point. You were at war. You saw shit. What do you expect? To come back and be perfectly fine? We all know that. But do you?”

I don’t know what else to say, so I stare at the television, trying to regulate my breathing. Maybe he is right. Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped at Jay, and—and Mouse. They were just… they care about me. I’m not sure I’m used to that again. We sit there, watching pre-super serum Steve Rogers try to flirt with Peggy Carter. It doesn’t go well. By the time he’s got massive, sweaty pecs and has tried to chase down Thorin Oakenshield from _the Hobbit_, I’ve let the question brew for too long.

“What’s Jay’s history with Mouse?” I ask quietly.

“He dragged him back home. After he was going through all that shit.”

I nod. “After…”

“After,” he repeats. After the war. They were in it together, he and Mouse. That’s why… that’s why Jay did what he did. That's why he's been so insanely insistent this entire time. That’s why he introduced us. It wasn’t to set us up. It was to somehow make sure I was okay. It was to make sure I had someone else around when he couldn't check on me. And he knows I’m not. He definitely knows I’m not.

“I need to talk to Jay.”

* * *

**February 8, 2016**   
**1337 Hours**   
**Chicago Police Department, District 21**   
**Mouse**

I’m not doing much of anything. I’m not really functional, to be honest. Lord, this is why I don’t try to date. It implodes too quickly. Jay’s gotta know. I mean, I can feel his gaze on me. He’s being damn creepy, is what he’s doing.

Hell, I told him what happened. I told him how Kate had yelled at me. He thinks it’s his fault, naturally. It’s not. He was just trying to help. That’s the problem with Jay: he wants to help so violently that sometimes it backfires.

He throws a pen at the murderboard and it just pings off the side. We’re nowhere in this case. Absolutely nowhere. It’s one of the first times it’s taken us weeks to even get where we are now, but this serial killer is still at large and we just keep getting more and more exhausted.

We’ve got so much data with this map thing, I don’t even know where to start. Whoever this asshole is, he’s gone into hiding. He’s either wrapping up this sick party or he’s planning something big. Regardless, we need to find this guy and all I can think of is what Kate yelled at me. That she didn’t need my pity, or to pretend she was okay.

It doesn’t matter now. I shouldn’t matter now.

Erin slips past me, and I notice her usual emotionless grimace is replaced by one of slight concern.

“Hey, KC's here to see you,” she says quietly to Jay. I’m suddenly eavesdropping. I don’t know why I’m so damn hopeful, but I can’t bring myself to look up at the sound of footsteps.

Kate shivers, shakes the rain off her coat. While Jay gets to his feet, I finally look up to her. It’s like her heart falls when we make eye contact. At least mine does. She gives me a small smile, and I feel my heart jump up again. Maybe there’s hope? As Jay guides her to the break room, her rain-wet fingers leave a trail on the edge of my desk. I watch it quickly dry.

Erin leans on Jay’s desk, crosses her arms, but I watch Jay. He doesn’t shut the door. I want to listen. I want to know what’s going on.

“She hasn’t talked to you since the gym outburst, has she?”

I shake my head, trying to focus so I can hear them. Erin moves over to lean on my desk, staring at them as hard as I am.

“She’s apologizing,” she says.

“Of course you can read lips.”

“Something about talking to Will, and Will sent her to… Dr. Charles,” she continues.

“The psychiatrist at Gaffney?”

“Yeah. Hold on… she’s agreed to start therapy. To work through her PTSD, I think… she says everything just happened so quickly, and that she’s still trying to cope and readjust. And—oh.”

“Oh, what? You can’t just stop like that, Erin!”

She waves me off, waves me silent. “She says she asked Will about you and Jay. Said she had reason to believe… something about more than just you and her getting laid, I think. That you both care about her.” She chuckles, but I’m still listening, waiting for more.

I try to decipher exactly what she’s talking about, but I really don’t have a good answer. My mind starts reeling, and Erin pulls herself from her spot on my desk very quickly. When I look back up, Jay gives Kate a hug. Don’t look up, Mouse. Don’t instigate. Don’t start shit you can’t finish. Go back to your computer. God, what were you doing—

“Hey… hey, Mouse. I—uh, do you have a second to talk?”

I look away from my blank desktop, and she doesn’t call me out on it, though she’s got to know. “Oh, sure. Sure.” I look up at Jay for help, but he’s suddenly busied himself with talking to Atwater. C’mon, man. Look up. Help me.

“Greg?”

I jolt and panic. “How… How about we step outside?”

She just nods, looking down at her shoes. Jay gives me an awkward thumbs up as we silently head down the stairs. By the time we get to the main doors, I’m already thinking I’m probably going to puke. It’s a viable option at this point. I don’t know why I’m so worked up about this. I mean, I can imagine why, but I’m not going to think about it until she speaks. She’s not talking. It’s way too cold out here. Actually, it’s pretty gross. It looks like it could storm.

“You about done?” She asks, and I jump.

“Done? With—with what?”

“Your internal monologue. You’ve got that slightly concerned, vacant look on your face.”

I’m not exactly sure how to take her at first, but she cracks just barely a smile.

“I’m sorry. Let’s… let’s start with that,” she says, looking up to the grey sky and wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m officially in therapy. I just… I don’t handle pity well. I’m a hothead. I don’t… I mean, I can’t…” Her voice cracks a little. She exhales, loud, then kicks at the stones on the sidewalk. “I recognize that what I’ve been going through needs to be addressed and I’m making attempts to fix it. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You of all people don’t deserve that.”

“What makes you say that?”

She glances at me, confused, concerned. Unsure. “I know you were here for Jay. I—I found out. I know what you did for him. So I don’t know if you’re just trying to help me get through this pile of bullshit or—or…” For a second, she has an internal conflict. She says she can read my face, but I can read hers too. She doesn’t want to say something, but she knows she has to. I hear thunder in the distance. “If—if there is something between us. God I really actually hope so. I hope so. Greg, I have no one. I have no one here that really gets it except Jay and you. I want to do this alone, but I can’t. I can’t do this alone. I’m not strong enough.”

I take a small step towards her, and for the first time in a week, she doesn’t step away.

“You think we—Jay and I—were strong enough? What do you think we did? We leaned on each other. God, he’s still one of the only people I’ve got.”

“You’ve got me,” she says, sounding small. When she looks at me, she’s got tears in her eyes. It could be the raindrops falling heavy around us. I wanted to avoid the rain, but right now, we’re too far in this to make a scenery change. She continues, not really off her last thought, but now she just starts talking because she’s on a roll and can’t stop. I don’t want her to stop, though. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy. I’m not. I’m just… shattered, you know? I’m afraid I’m too much to piece back together. It’s going to take more than just a few conversations to do that. I’m terrified. I want… I want to be normal again. I just… I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

I look out into the street, ignoring the cold rain. “Listen, you’re on the right track. You’re doin’ the right thing. You’ll get through this. Hell, if I did, you can. And I’m much more of a hot mess than you are. And Jay… he’s not even on the same spectrum. So you’re gonna be okay. And you know I’m here for you when you need me, right? Right, Kate—“

She kisses me. I don’t even know what to do. Where the hell do I put my hands? She’s pulled my face into hers, but it’s over before it’s even begun and my hands are still in the air when she pulls away. At first, she looks surprised, but then suddenly very unapologetic.

I’m still an idiot and open my mouth. “Well…well then. So, uh, what happened to not wanting to move too fast—“

She rests her hands on my shoulders, then looks back up to me. She touches my cheek delicately. That’s not a hand that’s killed people. I refuse to believe that. I can’t believe it.

I ignore the tears welling in her eyes as she speaks. “Can you just… can you kiss me again?”

I happily oblige.

* * *

**February 10, 2016**   
**1456 Hours**   
**Gaffney Chicago Medical Center**   
**KC**

The next session with Dr. Charles goes as well as I could expect. We talk more about my experiences in the service. We talk about what I’ve dealt with. We talk about my guilt. We talk about my guilt more than I really want to, but he invites me back next week. But it’s fine—it’s fine. I can do this. This isn’t a bad thing. This is really a good thing.

I make my way out of the hospital through the emergency department. I couldn’t find Will before, but I had his dinner—leftovers, needing reheating, but whatever. He was the one who bought the pizza to begin with, then forgot it after he got called in early. But when I head down to the ED, the alarms are sounding and people run into the room I’m pretty sure they call Baghdad, for some reason I don’t understand quite yet.

In a flash of burgundy scrubs and ginger hair, Will zips past, not even seeing me. Instead, I head up to the nurse’s station and wait to talk to the lady behind the desk, but she holds up a finger to me to wait as she messes with what looks like some sort of jacked up cell phone slash kids’ toy.

“Can I help you?” An exhausted voice says to me, and I turn to see a pretty brunette doctor, turning over a board to the busy nurse.

“I just want to drop off something for Dr. Halstead?”

She tilts her head to the other side, basically surveying me. “Wait, you’re Kate, aren’t you?”

“I’m not positive I should admit to that,” I say. She chuckles.

“It’s fine. You’re good. Want me to give it to him?”

“I saw he’s pretty busy right now, so sure,” I say, handing over the lunch bag for him. She raises her eyebrow at it—it’s some sort of green Vera Bradley print.

“He’s going to love that.”

“He’s got no choice,” I say. “If he hadn’t forgot it earlier, he could have made that choice, but no.”

She smiles. “He’s kind of like that, isn’t he?”

“Forgetful? Or bullheaded?”

Laughing, this time, loudly, she shakes her head at me. “Well. You’ve got him pegged, don’t you?”

“I’ve known him for a very long time.”

She looks me over once more. “Natalie Manning.”

I try not to visibly respond. So that’s Natalie. She’s the one I’ve heard so much about. The woman Will is practically in love with. When I shake her hand, I notice the other hand wears a wedding ring.

“You—you’re in the service?” She asks, and I instinctively hide my dog tags.

“Army.”

“My husband was in the Army,” she explains, her voice dropping low.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I know the tone. I know what Will told me.

“I’ll make sure I get this to him,” she says, taking the bag and turning tail. That was a good impression. I’ll be sure to tell him how I crashed and burned with his one true love.

I start walking back to school. Things are looking better, though. I think they are, anyway. I think they are. I just have to survive until my date with Erin tonight.

* * *

**February 10, 2016**   
**1907 Hours**   
**Molly's Pub, Chicago**   
**KC**

We headed down to a restaurant in Little Italy, and while it was good, we both knew we were just going to end up at Molly’s. It was swiftly becoming a thing, that bar and me. I don’t know if it was because they discount my drinks for basically being a Halstead or the people in general, but I’m not saying no at this point.

We order, we get our drinks, we do a pair of shots, and we sit in silence. That’s how the night usually starts. That’s fine with me. She doesn’t ask, I don’t tell, and vice versa. It’s not a bad gig, until she starts speaking.

“You went to Dr. Charles.”

“Yes, I did,” I confirm over the rim of my beer bottle.

“Will set it up?”

“Yep.”

“It’s a good thing.”

“I know it is. I just don’t want to believe that it is.”

“Fair enough.”

We lapse once more into silence, but Erin starts again. “You talk to Mouse?”

“You know I did, and you’re fishing.”

“So what?”

“You want to know what happened,” I accuse.

“Of course I do.”

I instead stare at the wall, trying not to hide my smile. She’s going to know anyway. Greg would have told Jay, Jay would have told Erin. “You already know.”

“You’re right. I do,” she says, smirking, drinking from her beer bottle.

“What is with you people not being able to keep your mouth shut?”

“You realize we’re undercover constantly?”

“I know, that’s why I would think y’all would calm it down a little.”

She leans onto the table. “Maybe it’s because we’re all pulling for you and Mouse.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re adorable together, that’s what I mean.”

I harrumph. She’s not wrong. We are. I’m just still trying to fix things in that area.

“You should ask him out,” she suggests. “Take him somewhere. Do something with him. Don’t pretend like you don’t like him, because we all know you do.”

“Because you’re stalking me?”

“Intelligence division,” she says, pointing to herself.

“Fine. Fine, I’ll figure something out, okay?”

“He said you liked hockey. He loves hockey. Every time I find him in the tech room, he’s got the Hawks on.”

“Oh, I know,” I say, and I can’t hide my smile. “I know about the Blackhawks.”

She gets out her phone and starts typing on it, so I survey the bar and slip into my own thoughts. Like in class today, the snide comment one of the kids said about my predecessor. About her murder. I don’t even want to think about it.

“Here,” she slides her phone towards me. “Blackhawks tickets. Pick your seats.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I mutter, glancing from her to the phone and back again. “Did you and Jay discuss this? Is your attempt to get me and Greg together your form of pillow talk?”

“We just want what’s best for the two of you,” she says, finishing her beer. I find myself buying a pair of tickets in section 201 for next week.

“You better not have a case so I can take him with me.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Erin says, flagging down Herrmann to bring her more beer.

“Hey, question for you. Did you know what happened to the woman I replaced? The old professor?”

She squints her eyes at me. “What do you mean?”

“Some kid was talking about her today in class. You’ve got to know something about that.”

“Kate, that’s a door you don’t want to open.”

I lean forward. “Okay, now you gotta tell me.”

She is visibly uncomfortable. I don’t like this. She wasn’t planning on telling me. But I knew. I already knew. “You know that serial rapist and murderer that’s been around our area for several months?” She asks, her voice low. My blood runs cold, and I lean back.

“You’re right. I’m sorry for asking.”


	9. Only love can set you free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KC comes upon a fire down the road from her apartment, quickly learning that it's an arson case. Regardless, she pushes it from her mind, because she realizes a draw of one Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz—normalcy.

**February 14, 2016**  
0517 Hours  
1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago  
KC

I finally decide to just stop trying to sleep. It’s not worth it. Not after what Erin told me.

That’s what Jeffrey was explaining weeks ago. Or trying to explain. He was probably trying to warn me, or something. God. I should be nicer to him.

Well, I can’t fix it now. I’m awake and thinking about the woman I replaced. Raped and murdered. God. Good Lord, this is my legacy? I mean, I knew it before, but why now? Why now, am I the one—

It’s not my fault, I remind myself. This isn’t my fault.

I pull on some running clothes to work off some of my shame and my exhaustion. I don’t need my headphones. It’s not worth it this early. It’s actually kind of nice: Chicago at five thirty in the morning has a sort of dull haze to it, one that just breezes in from the lake.

I decide to head north for once up Racine. It doesn’t take me very long to hear sirens, loud sirens, until I slow down and watch a pair of firetrucks scream past me. Truck 81 and Truck 51. They’re from the firehouse.

I kick up the speed, not sure what I plan on doing what I get there, but the apartment complex down the street is engulfed in flames. I’ve never seen flames that high.

The ambulance blocks part of the street, tending to victims as they’re pulled out. It’s practically triage out here. It must have started very, very quickly. It’s early enough people aren’t congregating, but I have a bad feeling it could start soon. I check my watch. Even on a Sunday, this could be serious if they’re blocking off part of Racine.

Regardless, it’s the people they’re filtering out that worries me even more. I’ve been there. I could help. I close the distance between Sylvie and I—she’s the first one I see—who helps an elderly woman to a seated position on the street’s center divider.

“Sylvie! Is there anything I can do?”

She tiredly stands up, looks around, then looks to me. “KC, what are you doing here?”

“I was going on a run. I live down the street. Can I help you?”

“Umm… hold on.” She does a three-sixty, then she whirls back to me. “A bus is coming with blankets and water bottles and supplies. You’re in charge, okay?”

“Got it.”

I’m on business mode. The bus shows up, I start unloading with the paramedics, and we start passing out items. It doesn’t take long to figure out exactly what happened though, once I run into Severide, his jacket and face covered in ash.

“Kelly, what happened—“

“KC! What’re you doing here?”

“Long story, live down the street, I’ve been helping. What caused it?”

He takes a tentative look at the familiar firefighter—Casey, I think—then back to me. “We’re pretty sure it was an arson.”

“Pretty sure? How are you pretty sure?”

He beckons me closer, drops his voice low. “We found a body.”

I swallow hard.

“It’s—“

“No way to know for sure,” he says. “But get back home, okay? You don’t need to see this.”

“You should call Jay,” I say, stepping back from him.

He looks distant, almost overwhelmed. “Stay—stay safe.”

* * *

**February 15, 2016**   
**1941 Hours**   
**University of Illinois—Chicago**   
**KC**

I know I’m running late when I finally get out of the office Monday evening, but Jeff was talking to me, and we finally got to get that coffee he’s been wanting, and he’s actually an alright—but ultimately weird— guy once I gave him a little bit of a chance. And then we had the department meeting, talking about the gala this weekend. I hope to God that Greg can come with me.

But I finally checked my watch and suddenly I’m late. It’s within walking distance, so I move as fast as I can while pulling out my phone.

I decide to call Sylvie. I think she was just finishing up her shift at the firehouse. Besides, I had been meaning to call her. She’s been a decent friend so far, and while I try to become a functioning human again, I might as well try to make her a better friend.

The phone rings for a while before she answers.

“KC. You okay?”

“Yeah, why do you always assume I’m hurt or something?”

She chuckles. That’s a good sign. “That seems to be the reason you call me most of the time.”

“I just wanted to check on you after the call yesterday morning. How are you? How is everyone?”

Sylvie just sighs. “There’s going to be an investigation, I can tell you that. Thanks for your help, though. It was nice to have an extra set of hands who pretty much knew what they were doing. You have a habit of doing that.”

“What, swooping in when you guys should be doing that job? I’m taking all the good calls?”

“Let me tell you, I’d rather not have calls like either of the ones we found you on,” she says. “But still. All hands on deck, you know?”

I realize I’m almost to his apartment, so I know I’ve got to wrap it up. “Hey, Sylvie, we should get together sometime, okay?”

“I would love that.”

“Good, good. I don’t…” I feel myself getting vulnerable, and I almost stop myself. I shouldn’t have to stop myself. Dr. Charles says vulnerability can be good. “I don’t have a lot of girlfriends in Chicago. I’d like to think you’re a good candidate.”

“Me neither, KC. Me... me neither. I’ll text you?”

“Sounds good.” When I finally make it to Greg’s apartment, he’s leaving out the front door, phone in hand, probably to dial my number.

“I’m sorry, I’m here!” I call out, wrapping my coat tight around myself and slipping my phone away. I don’t miss the cold, to be honest. This can go to hell.

And then you have Greg, who has his puffy jacket hanging open, his hat just barely pulled over his ears.

“I was just gonna call you. What happened?”

“I got held up at work. But I’m here now.”

He accepts it completely with a shrug, then joins me on the sidewalk. “So, where’re we heading?”

I slip my arm through his and start dragging him towards Ogden. “We’re going to walk it, because I’m not going to deal with a cab, alright?”

“Alright, is it far?”

“Are you really asking me that question? Are you really that lazy?”

He huffs, the puff of his breath coming out in a cloud. “You understand I sit in front of a computer for a living?”

“I teach for a living and still manage to go out for a run at least twice a week.”

“I can’t even fight with you. You’re too bullheaded.”

I nod without looking at him. “Smart man.”

“Where are we going?” He asks again as I turn him onto Ogden.

“Nope.”

“You’re not going to tell me at all?”

“Nope.”

“Can we play twenty quest—“

“Nope.”

“Animal, vegetable, mineral—“

I glare at him before we cross the street, and he cuts himself off with a loud chuckle.

“You do this just to antagonize me.”

“I do. Hey, Kate—“

“No.”

“Please?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I’m gathering that.”

I swallow my pride for a second and decide to just try something. “Hey, so, uh, I’ve got a thing on Friday.”

He squints at me. “A thing? Be more specific.”

“A school thing. A special speaker. I have to go. It’s free food, it’s free drinks, it’s fancy as fuck, I don’t want to go, but if you would come with me, it would be a lot less painful?”

He smirks, talks out of the side of his mouth. It’s a theme with him. “Are you bribing me with tonight so I go with you?”

“The thought never even crossed my mind.”

“If you dress fancy, does that mean I have to?”

I give him a wide grin. “Please, Greg.”

“Oh, I’ll go. I’m not gonna like it.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” I say, grinning up at him. He sputters for a second, his face turns a little red. That’s not really what I meant, I don’t know what I meant, but he doesn’t seem to address it. He just realizes where we are and changes the subject.

“Wait, why are we on Madison? We’re going to—nah. No.”

I jolt, because he’s stopped moving, and I extricate myself from his arm. He freezes, blocking the sidewalk and peering at me with squinting eyes.

“Kate. Kate, you didn’t.”

“I did, and I want to get some food before we go to our seats, alright?”

He stands there, his jaw open, and I approach him in a few steps, press on his jaw to shut his mouth, then start walking backwards in front of him.

“Maple Leafs ain’t gonna heckle themselves, Gerwitz,” I say, pulling my red Hawks hat from my coat pocket and setting it backwards on my head. “You comin’?”

He runs after me, and I grin once I turn around. I feel his hand trace down my arm and pull my hand out of my warm coat pocket. He laces his fingers in between mine as we get into the line outside of United Center to get in.

He bounces in the cold, wordlessly, until we get inside the doors, and immediately leads me, hand in hand, to LQ Chicken Shack (once he finds the signs). We settle in to eat, but I know something’s bothering him.

“Your brain. I can hear it churning.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” he says, but I stop eating and glare at him. “Mouse. C’mon.”

“You said Jay talked about me,” he says, caving so quickly. “When we met at Molly’s.”

“And it’s eating at your brain,” I finish. “He talked about something you did.” I’m trying to think about it without having a flashback, but it’s hard. I can taste the sand in my mouth. “We were… we were trying to get a guy back. Bucks was held for ransom. Jay gave me an idea on how to get him back. Talked about this shitshow in Helmand. Talked about you.”

“What did he say?”

“You were his best friend since me,” I say. “And you two were the only ones to get out alive.”

He shifts in his seat. I don’t want to talk about this kind of thing, not now, not when we’re having a good time, but we both can’t help it. It’s a part of our lives, and as much as we try, we can’t avoid it.

“Why did you keep going back?”

“What do you mean?”

“Seven and a half years. Six tours. Why did you keep going back?”

I look anywhere but him as I try to come up with an answer. Nothing comes to mind at first, so I just admit it. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to tell you. Everything made sense over there. It was black and white and I knew my place, you know?”

“I know,” he says. “I know more than anyone.”

“Shit wasn’t so complicated over there,” I say. “And I didn’t really have much of anyone to come back to. But then it came down to it, and I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“I’ve been there,” he whispers. “Hey, I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it’s good that you did,” I say. “Dr. Charles told me the only way to get past it is to talk about it. So yeah. I’m glad you brought it up.”

He gives me a genuine smile, not the casual smirks he usually serves up for me. Once we’ve both purchased our overpriced beers of choice, we’re headed to Section 203. I couldn’t get us in the 100 sections, but at least we’re not in nosebleeds.

Greg seems to be pleased with the seating arrangement, because he just keeps whispering “holy shit”.

“You’ve never been here before?” I ask, shedding my coat and setting it on my chair.

“No. Not once.”

“Do you even live in Chicago, Greg? That is really sad. You can’t skate. You’ve never been here—“

“Stop shaming me,” he says, sipping on his beer. “Cute Patrick Kane jersey, by the way.”

“I’ve got to represent,” I say, readjusting where I tied the extra-large jersey back so it actually fit me. “He’s one of my own kind.”

“Violent?”

“Maybe a little.” I sit back down in my seat and take my beer back from Greg. As I silently sip on it, I peer out at the ice. It looks glorious. It all looks glorious. I’m back. It’s my first game since I’m back and I’m spending it with—

I look back to him, and he’s staring at me, with just that slight side smirk he tends to do. Without a second thought, I lean into him and kiss him lightly. I pull away, and he keeps his hand in the air like he was going to rest it somewhere on me but I left too quickly.

“This is amazing.”

I drop my hand to his shoulder, letting my fingers graze his jaw as I do. “Hey—“ I say, drawing my hand back. I can’t get in this deep. You can’t, KC. You can’t. “They haven’t won yet.”

He chuckles once, then settles back into his seat. “Is this a Valentine’s—“

“No, this has nothing to do with Valentine’s Day,” I say shortly. “Fuck Valentine’s Day. Let’s watch some violence and bloodshed.”

With one more chuckle, he leans towards me and kisses me on the cheek.

I feel the color rise into my face, but I mask it by taking a long drink of my beer. As soon as the game starts, suddenly, it’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.

* * *

**February 15, 2016**  
2218 Hours  
United Center, Near West Side, Chicago  
KC

“And Kane’s hat trick! Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hat trick in person. It was epic! Holy shit. Holy shit.”

I hold my coat in my arms, although it’s cold out. My blood boils from the violence and blood and anger and everything glorious that comes from the National Hockey League.

“Are you going to say anything except ‘holy shit’?” I ask, but instead he grabs my hand and forces me to spin under his arm. It’s not really forcing, though. I participate willingly.

“Nope. No, I’m not. I can’t say anything else. Seven to two. That’s how we do it!” He yells his last sentence and it echoes as we walk back to his apartment.

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up about the hat trick. It’s not like it’s hard.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘it’s not like it’s hard’?” He asks as I step in front of him, walking backwards on the nearly empty street almost to his apartment.

I shrug, playing him a little. He’s cute when he’s confused. “Hell, I had a Gordie Howe in senior year.”

“How in the hell did you get a Gordie Howe on a Catholic girls’ hockey team?!”

“I assisted on Beth McLean’s goal in the first period, goaled in the second. But when I got the goal, I may have knocked down… oh, shit, what was her name… I don’t remember. From the other team. Marist, I think. She was not pleased.”

“She fought you?”

“Depends on who you ask,” I say, falling back into step with him. “De La Salle says I was defending myself, Marist said she was defending herself. Either way, she had a broken collarbone for prom.”

“You annihilated that poor girl—“

“Oh, don’t worry. I got a concussion and suspended for the rest of the season.”

“Did you win?”

I scoff. “Hell yes, we did. We went to playoffs that year.”

“How far you get?”

“Two games, and I swear that’s only because I couldn’t play. I would have taken us all the way to finals. I should find a team here.”

"I know of an adult league, but most of them are men's."

"Oh, you sweet, summer child. I'm not even sure they could handle the heat I'm bringing."

We keep talking, and I realize he’s unlocking the main door to his apartment building when I follow him inside. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I have no reason to be nervous.

And he doesn’t seem too fazed himself. He just keeps talking about the game and the fact that I achieved a Gordie Howe Hat Trick, and how he’s just dumbfounded that I would think of taking him to a game and that I didn’t have to—

“Hey. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

“I’m sure I know about a lot,” he says, popping the top off a beer and handing it to me. “We’ve both been there. It’s a process, yeah, but damn. I would pay money to see you straight up annihilating the opposing team while you were in high school.”

“I could probably find some of the recordings,” I say, drinking down about half of the cold beer.

“You have them on video?”

“Yeah, just in case we needed proof for insurance or court proceedings. I should put them on Youtube or whatever now. Make that shit go viral.”

He snorts his beer, nearly getting it on his red hoodie. I laugh too, leaning back on the edge of his couch, taking another long drink.

“But thanks. Thanks for taking me.”

“Who else was I gonna go with? Jay? Nah, if I took Jay, I’d have to do something with Will or else he’d get antsy and jealous. No, you’re a much better option. Plus you don’t get weird when I string tapestries of obscenities and weird analogies.”

“I think my personal favorite was ‘are you going to call that cross check, or are you going to continue jacking off to your own inflated sense of masculine Canadian superiority?’ Jesus, I would pay money to hear you chirp on the ice.”

“If you’re looking for me to apologize, I’m not going to.”

“Oh, no. I’m not. You’re just hilarious when you watch hockey.”

"I'm even better when I play."

"You desperately need to find a team before you beat someone up in a back alley."

I smile, drinking more of my beer. It comes out before I can stop myself. “For the first time since I got back, since I… since I got shot, I feel like I’m back to some sort of normal. And I’m being serious this time. It’s just… I know we’ve known each other for a month, but it’s felt like longer. Not many people get me like you do. I just… I need you to know that.”

He just looks at me for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, surprisingly, but suddenly he reaches for my beer bottle, takes it from my hand and sets it on the counter top. I’m about to voice my displeasure when he puts his hand on my cheek and guides my lips to his. I don’t know if it’s me, or him, or both, but we taste like sweat and beer and warmth.

He breaks from me, and for the first time in a long time, my mind is clear. I’m distracted by his blue eyes, his lips. His lips on mine again. Again, and again. I barely let myself linger, but each time, each kiss, is drawn out until I open my mouth against his, pulling him closer to me, until I gasp for air, my hand resting on his chest.

“This was definitely my plan all along,” I say breathlessly, and he rests his hand over mine.

“What, bribe me with Hawks tickets and get me to bring you up to my apartment?”

I back up, dragging him along with me, until I hit his kitchen island. Ignoring the bar stool, he lifts me up onto the counter, so I pull him into me with the strings of his hood.

His mouth moves silently when I pull my legs around his hips, bringing him closer to me than we’ve ever been.

It’s not just the intimacy I crave, I realize. It’s everything that comes with it, before it. He leans into me, and I lean back on my hands; he kisses my jaw, my neck. Gently, reverently, he unties the hem of my too-big jersey, slips his hands under it until he pulls it over my head and sets it like a regal mantle on the stool we’ve avoided completely.

I laugh and as he does, I kick off my boots. I don’t regret my movement. I start to pull off his hoodie, separating it from the t-shirt underneath. I pull him back to me, opening my mouth against his, and he gains his balance from a well-placed hand on the counter top next to me. He takes his chance to use me instead, grasping my hip, and when I gasp for air, when I loosen my thighs around him, he slips his fingers under the hem of my tank top.

We’re past the point of no return now, and I’m perfectly fine with it. God, I’m fine with it. I shouldn’t be fine with it. I’m better than that.

He stops moving for a moment, holding his hands to my hips. But his fingers shift upwards until he’s near my scar on my chest. We both know it’s the size of a 45-caliber gunshot wound, and he goes quiet, moving aside my bra strap until it falls against my arm. He gets solemn, and he moves his hand around to my back. This scar is at least three times bigger from where the bullet left my body. I feel his fingers like electricity as his touch shoots through the scar tissue.

“It’s so close to your heart,” he finally says. “God, Kate. You shouldn’t have…”

“I shouldn’t have lived?” I finish, clasping my hand around his and flattening it to my chest. I’m sure he could feel my heavy heartbeat. “I know I shouldn’t have. Don’t you get it? I think about that every day.”

Instead of responding, he picks me up off the counter top, and I’m pleasantly surprised as I wrap my legs around his hips. Of course, KC, you know he was a Ranger. This nerd made it through the training and years in the Sandbox, just like you. Just like you.

I duck underneath the door frame, clutching onto him, but he doesn’t quite dump me on the bed.

“I quite like view right here,” he says, and I look down at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you going to look at it or work with it?” I say, and he smiles, he smirks, looking back up at me.

“Can I do both? Is that an option?”

“You can do both—oh!” He dumps me on the bed without warning, and I bounce a little on the unmade sheets. “You going to Hulk out, or something? Damn.”

“You’re funny when you want to be,” he says, kicking off his shoes and climbing on top of me. “The sarcasm is fine, but I’d really like to hear you laugh.”

“Maybe. If you’re lucky. If you try really hard.” I slip my hands under his shirt, not quite taking it off, instead, running my hands along his sides.

He twitches. “Stop. I’m ticklish. Don’t… don’t do it, Kate.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I say, pushing him up onto his knees. I bounce up onto mine, then use both hands to pull his t-shirt off. His hair sticks up once I do, and I automatically fix it. It’s becoming a habit.

Even in the streetlight sinking in through his blinds, I can see his scar knitting its way across his side. “The convoy?” I ask, tracing my fingers over it. It has nearly disappeared over time, but I can see it. I can feel the tightness underneath.

“Let’s just forget about that right now,” he whispers, taking my hands and pushing me down onto the bed. We collide, finally feel the warmth of each other’s skin down the length of us.

And just when he shudders, I flip him over. He lands on his bed harder than I would have liked, but I pin his hands over his head, kissing him like he kissed me. He grabs my hands, tries to push me away, until we’re both on our knees again on the bed, with him holding my wrists into the air. We’re at a silent impasse.

I stop fighting against him, and he automatically loosens his grip on me. This time, when he wraps his arms around me, he fights for a brief moment with my bra.

“Want me to get it for you?” I say, sounding weaker, sounding less confident that I had in a long time. He laughs nervously, still trying.

“Just as a warning, I haven’t done this in… a while. Let’s call it a while,” he articulates, finally unhooking the clasp. He pushes each strap down my shoulders, still looking at my scar.

“Me neither,” I add. “Remember, eight-year dry spell.”

“Has it really been eight years since you’ve had sex?” He asks, then turns red like he’s embarrassed for asking.

“There was a weird almost one-night stand in Monaco in 2011, but I don’t count that because it didn’t end up happening, so… yeah. Eight—“ my voice cracks. “Eight years.”

It’s like he immediately switches tactics, sliding my bra off quickly but softly. He lays me gently down on the bed. He starts by kissing me, long, until I gasp for breath, and then he starts kissing my neck, my collarbone, until he kisses me in a wet line down to my belly button. Before long, he’s unbuttoning and taking off my jeans with tentative hands. He kisses the sensitive skin along my waistband, and when he gets to my side, I jolt.

His lips part into a smirk. “Oh, no. You’re ticklish, too.”

“Don’t do this, Greg. Don’t. I didn’t do it to you, don’t—dammit, Greg!”

I writhe as he kisses my side, as he runs his fingertips up the other side. He giggles as he finally lets me kiss him, but soon I’m squealing as he tickles me—

“This is not fair. This is so not fair. We are adults. We have fought—in wars—we have jobs—don’t do this—“

He stops, rolling to my side, still laughing. His face scrunches up, and his shoulders move as he nearly wheezes, and suddenly, I hear myself laughing too. I’m laughing and can’t stop.

“Told you I could make you laugh,” he says, proud of himself. In retaliation, I shove him, hard, until he falls off his bed with a thud.

“That was uncalled for,” I hear him say from the floor.

“The tickling was uncalled for.”

“I have other tactics I could try.”

“I’m interested in hearing about these tactics, but only if they’re good ones,” I say.

He pops back up, but this time, slowly finds his way on top of me. He kisses me, he opens his mouth against mine, and I can feel his breath. I gasp against him, and he moves my hands up, slowly, until they’re above my head and his fingers are intertwined with mine.

“I don’t know if I like this side of you,” I say between kisses as he moves down my neck, “You’re spastic. You don’t stop moving. You—“

He curls his tongue around my nipple, effectively cutting me off. Damn, it’s been too long.

I try to gain some traction, but he knows he has the upper hand. With one hand, he pushes my arched back even further into him, giving him more room to work with, and with the other, he cups me in his long fingers, touching me just enough to make me want more.

He watches me, and I watch him, and he’s already grinning when he switches. His fingers curl around me, wet and twisting, until I’m already gasping. I sink my fingers into his hair, holding onto him loosely.

“I’m either better at this than I thought, or you really aren’t kidding about the sex thing,” he mutters, his voice humorous and muffled.

“Let’s go with both, so it doesn’t bruise your ego,” I say, but he bites at my side, at the skin there, making me bruise. It’s half tickling, half pain, and I let him do it until he slides his hand down over my underwear. Even with the fabric between us, I feel his warm touch and arch into it. I fight against him, and he doesn’t want to stop kissing me but I push him back to his knees so I can unbuckle his belt and undo his pants. He slips off the bed to find a condom. We’re quiet, deliberate, and before I can emotionally prepare, his hands are back at my hips, discarding my underwear with a gentle movement.

Like he can’t help it, he runs his fingers over me, and it shoots electricity through my body. I reach back, grabbing for the edge of my pillow, and he does it again, holding my legs apart with his own hips. Bracing his hand against my ribs, he presses a little harder, and I gasp, exhaling slowly. It still hurts a little, my ribs, my lungs.

“We should do more of that later,” he says, pulling up the covers as I shiver. His apartment is still cold, the February wind cutting through his windows, so I’m happy for his intervention. “But I’m not sure you’re going to be able to handle it.”

“I’ll handle you, dammit,” I snap, leaning up on my elbows.

“So impatient,” he whispers, guiding himself into me. I instinctively shut my eyes, arching into him and gasping. It’s been so long, I’m afraid I won’t know what to do, but he makes it so easy, holding onto my hands as he pushes into me. The length of his body collides with mine, and his warmth in the cold Chicago night is easily welcomed. I whimper, and it seems to please him; he presses his lips against my neck, finding a gentle rhythm I’m craving.

His lips meet mine again, and between my gasps, he speaks.

“Why did you really come back?”

“Back? Back… to Chicago?”

He nods, ending the gesture with another string of kisses on the same place on my neck.

“I didn’t… I didn’t have anywhere else. Nowhere else has felt… like home.”

He grasps a little tighter to my hands, thrusting that much harder. This time, I let out a moan I haven’t heard from my lips in years.

“I, for one, am glad you came back.” He thrusts harder, just a little bit faster, and this time I’m squeezing his hands in retaliation.

“Not fair,” I whisper, not resisting the grin slipping into my voice. “I am powerless against you.”

“What’s that? I smell bullshit,” he manages. I lean up to kiss him, and he opens his mouth against mine, moaning. I can’t help but laugh, and he does too, until I whimper and moan.

“Payback’s a bitch,” he mutters, but it doesn’t matter now. I draw in a breath through my teeth, biting back my lip. God, it’s been too long. I almost forget how it feels. I almost forgot how the tremors start. I try to get traction on his sheets, I feel like I’m grabbing his hands too hard but he doesn’t complain.

I try to come up with words, but he looks down at me, and I almost arch back into him. It’s like an earthquake, but with preshocks: he takes it as a warning, and the flush in his cheeks makes me realize he’s trying to hold off, trying to wait, until I lose it.

“I’m… I’m glad I’m back,” I whisper. “Chicago’s better with you in it.”

“I’ve always been here,” he says between whimpers into my neck. “You just didn’t know it.”

Any attempt at answer is incoherent, and instead I find myself nodding, shutting my eyes tight, and finally lose any sense of control.

I cry out, and his hands tighten against mine as he shakes, and I shake, and he kisses me, dragging his lips across mine as hold on to the waves, his waves, and my waves, and after what feels like hours he draws out of me.

“This… this was not my original intention,” I breathe, I whisper, my voice all but gone. “This wasn’t my plan. I want you to know that.”

He slips onto his side, pulling my face towards his and kissing me once more.

“I know it wasn’t. But I’m not gonna turn you down, either.”

I pant, looking up at his ceiling, until I can breathe normally again.

“Want to order food and do this again before the delivery guy shows up?”

“Pizza’ll take 30 minutes. Chinese will take about 45,” he says, not looking at me and instead speaking to the ceiling.

“Better go with the Chinese then,” I say, rolling on top of him.


	10. Can you see in the dark?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate wakes up in Mouse's arms, and their relationship quickly transforms before her very eyes. When he accompanies her to a school gala, things get...heated.

**February 16, 2016**   
**0714 Hours**   
**171 N Aberdeen Street #505C, Fulton Market, Chicago**   
**KC**

I don’t wake up right away. It’s quiet for once, and I don’t want to leave the darkness. For once, for once, the sleep is wanted. The sleep is comforting. I don’t have a nightmare.

Someone kisses my cheek, my lips. I kiss him back. Greg. I’m still in his bed. I’m here, and I’m still asleep. I’m going back to sleep.

I roll onto my back, using part of the comforter to cover my face. It’s not even bright yet, but it’s too bright. I’m not ready to face the day. I don’t want to leave this bed.

He moves closer to me, and I want to feel the warmth of his body against mine, and before I can say anything, his hands are on my hips, his mouth tracing kisses down my chest, sleepily, lightly.

“You awake?” He whispers, running his thumbs over my skin.

“No, I’m not,” I groan, closing my eyes again. I nearly drift off, but I feel his mouth train down my chest, down to my belly button.

“Kate,” he whispers in a sing song voice, his fingers tracing gently over my thighs. “Kate.”

I slip into that state of half sleep, feeling his mouth on my thighs like a dream. He lets out a half chuckle, half exhale, and I feel his hot breath against me, against my thighs. He kisses me first, and I almost open my eyes, just for a moment, but then I settle back into the darkness.

I’m weak in his hands. He moves my legs to where he wants them, and I know what he’s planning on doing but I pretend like I don’t. It’s better if I pretend I don’t. I feel him, his mouth getting closer to me, and I nearly jolt, his hand running over me.

He’s gentle in the morning light, gentle against me, gently, gently, gently. He does everything gently. His fingers part me, his tongue runs over me, and I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or not. He moves slowly, I don’t know if he doesn’t want to rush things, he acts like time is a social construct and not something ticking by.

At first, he works with his tongue, whirling over me, until I hear my own breath catch. Like a cue, he slips a finger inside me. I gasp, high pitched and embarrassing, but he doesn’t make a sound. I’m the one making sounds.

I finally open my tired eyes, and I look down at him under the covers, watching him between my legs like a fucking artist. He curls his finger, deftly placed inside me, he curls until I feel my toes curl.

Unbidden, he slips his hand over my skin, over my stomach up to me and kneads me under his fingertips. I can’t handle this. I can’t handle what he’s doing, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

He twists, he kneads, he spins, he takes and licks and curls, completely content, completely taking me. He shifts his weight, gives himself more room. He draws himself from me, and I whimper; he returns, and I gasp.

He holds me to him, curling his finger—no, his fingers—into me. I grab at my pillow, I bite into the comforter, I do whatever I can to not make noise. It’s too early for noise, it’s too early to break the silence coming in from the city below.

He brings back his hand to me, pulling his mouth off, and I watch him do it. He looks so content with himself, watching my bare chest heave. He wanted to see, he wanted me to see; I let my tired eyes close, I let myself we weakly fall into his grasp. He moves slowly, and when he brings his tongue back to me, I arch into him.

I feel my breath catch. For the first time in a long time, I allow it. It’s not because of anything except him.

He swirls his tongue around me, and the first of the waves, the tingling, it starts. It didn’t take him long. It shouldn’t take him long. I let it begin and nearly crest, and before long, the second one begins, each one more driving than the last. He doesn’t make any attempt to stop: he moves, he tries harder, but his touch stays soft. He’s soft, but driving, with waves threatening to take me over, and I moan, I reach down and thread my fingers through his hair.

That’s the last thing we both needed. I try not to hold my breath, but it happens anyway, and the waves of anticipation and pleasure fall over me, threaten to not stop, to continue until I couldn’t take it anymore, but he relents, pulling himself from me and letting me pant, glistening with sweat, on his sheets.

“Dear Lord,” I mutter, watching him get to his feet. He saunters towards the bathroom.

“You want a shower?” He asks nonchalantly.

“Are you included?” I ask hoarsely.

* * *

**February 19, 2016**   
**1513 Hours**   
**University of Illinois—Chicago**   
**KC**

I find myself daydreaming in my office. I say daydreaming, not dissociating. I’m thinking about Monday. And Tuesday morning. Lord, that boy can do work. When there’s a knock on my door, though, I clear my throat and straighten, hoping the blush on my cheeks fades quickly as I finish painting my nails.

It’s Jeffrey. He leans in, giving me a brief smile.

“Hello, Kaitlyn! You ready for the series tonight?”

“Of course! Of course,” I say, shifting in my seat. The talk is part of a lecture series, and he’s the one who organized this speaker—she an academic coming in to talk about the importance of mental health in the Armed Forces. I think he did it because of me. I don’t want to admit it. But that’s probably also the reason he wanted me to do the introductory speech tonight.

“So, do you have anyone to go with you tonight?” He asks nonchalantly. I’m taken aback.

“Like, you mean, a date? Yeah, yeah, I have a date. I’m—my boyfriend, actually.”

“Oh,” he says, slumping. I feel kind of bad for him, actually. “Good. Good for you, then.”

“I’ll see you there,” I say, getting up, gathering my notes, and trying to escape the awkward situation I’m suddenly in. He lets me slip by, and without another word, I’m out into the quad. Holy shit, that was a bit too much for me.

At any rate, I head back home. I’ve got about two and a half hours to get ready, and I’m not even sure I have a dress that’s appropriate for the event. Why didn’t I think of this beforehand?

When I get home, I rifle through my closet, and I’m stuck. This is too complicated. I need to call in reinforcements. I don’t know who to call—

Erin. She could help. I hope to God she’s not working. She can’t work all the time, right?

I text her a 9-1-1 Fashion emergency and wait. Actually, I get out my wine, then dump out of my closet any of the possible options, then drown my sorrows in half a bottle. I hear a buzz from my phone, but ignore it, because I’ve found a box of Halloween costumes I think Will shoved in the back of my closet when I moved in. After messing with that for a few minutes, I finish curling my hair.

There’s a knock at my door, and I yell for her to come in.

“Where are you?”

Her desperate call comes out through the kitchen, and I poke my head out of my room. Jay is behind her and immediately checks the fridge.

“You brought Halstead?”

“We’re technically on duty,” he says, grabbing whatever off brand pop he can find.

“Fashion emergency?” Erin asks, looking at the pile on my bed. Jay just plops down on the floor, leaning against the door frame like he owns the place. Actually, he used to sit like that in my room a lot when we were kids—propping up the door, monitoring the entryway like a sentry.

“The lecture tonight. I have nothing to wear. Help me.”

“What’re you going for?” She asks, eyeing the pile with her hands on her hips.

“Huh?”

“Respectable. Sexy?"

“—like you’re gonna get laid after,” Jay adds. When I glare at him, he smirks at me, so I punch him in the arm.

“Dude, we know. Mouse melted like a candle,” Jay says.

“Jesus Christ. You guys are brutal to him. Leave him alone. Let us live our lives, yeah?”

“So are you planning to get laid after?” He asks, seriously, over the can of pop.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“This one,” Erin immediately says, holding up a black number I haven’t been able to get into for years.

“No way. There’s no way I’m going to fit into that thing. That’s years ago.”

“Don’t you have Spanx or something?” Erin asks, looking around my room. “Is it really tight?”

“It’s tight enough—“

“What about this?”

She reaches into my Halloween box. I don’t know what the hell she thinks she could find in there, but she pulls out a black corset I wore in high school or college for some slutty party. I don’t remember.

Jay snorts his pop when he sees it. “Holy shit. I didn’t know you still had that. Oh, God, it burns my eyes—“

“You wouldn’t want me to wear something like this?” Erin says, tossing it to me.

He immediately shuts his mouth and nods once. “Message received.”

Erin shrugs, giving me a smirk. “Fixed it.”

“I’m not confident I can get into this by myself.”

“No problem,” she says as Jay gets to his feet and she shuts the door.

Wyew. This is harder than it has to be. But with that thing on, I might as well plan to get laid. I find my matching black lace bra and panties set, disrobe, put those on, then slip the black satin corset on, tightening the back laces as far as I can go, then sliding the black dress on. I call for Erin, and she returns, without a word, and starts pulling on the laces of the corset until she gets more slack.

“How bad?” I ask, as she sizes up how much more room I need.

“Not too bad,” she responds, and without warning, she pulls on the already tight lacing. I gasp, and she laughs.

“Could’ve told me to exhale.”

“Then exhale.”

I do as she says, grasping onto my dresser. She pulls on the extra lacing, and once she’s done, she pulls once more, tightening the damn thing even more.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, and I see Jay watching from the doorway, his head slowly tilting.

“You’re sick,” I tell Jay, but regret it when she pulls once more. I swear that’s because Jay’s watching. Regardless, she ties it and tucks in the strings, then zips me up without hesitation.

“Red lipstick, pearls, and black heels,” she instructs. “Mouse did look nice, by the way.” Jay grabs her hand and starts pulling her away.

“Gotta get back on the road. Have fun boning Mouse tonight.”

“Shut the fuck up, you dick.”

From the door way, I hear him yell, “Love you!”

“Get outta my house!”

The door slams shut.

Okay, learn to breathe again, and you’ll be fine. I find my black heels, pin part of my hair back, and finish my makeup before putting on the finishing touches. After finding my clutch, I put everything together, add the red lipstick, then I take a long look at myself in the mirror. The dress is damn tight, but I’m holding it together. I squint, then pull my boobs out from their tightly tied prison. Hopefully I’ve got enough breath still left in me to make my comments tonight. At any rate, I look fabulous.

I throw on my coat and head out. Greg said he would meet me at the Quad, because he was at the precinct; as I try to walk in these heels down the sidewalk, I hope to God he remembers. I told him the dress code, right? I told him. He’s aware. Lord, I hope he makes it on time.

“Kate?”

I feel like I’m in a fucking rom com. I turn around at the sound of his voice, and holy shit, the boy cleans up. Dark gray suit, white button down, no tie. A loosely fitting peacoat. He looks a little nervous, a little out of place. I can’t quite get his name past my lips. He’s the only one who could speak.

“Woah.”

“I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”

He nearly trips over himself. “You. You’re—give me a second, okay?”

He exhales quickly, staring at the cement, and I start to laugh. “Are you going to be okay?”

“The other day you were screaming obscenities at hockey players, and now you look like… like a freakin’ model,” he says, his voice cracking a little at the end.

“Does this bother you, Greg?”

“I’m just so confused.”

“Why don’t we get dinner, yeah?”

He nods, taking my hand and leading me inside. When he takes my coat to hang it up, I hear him exhale heavily again.

“Should have warned you?”

“I’m not mature enough for this.”

“Neither am I, so control yourself.”

“I don’t want to, uh, objectify you, but your ass in that dress…”

As we head into the hall, I whisper to him, “I literally had to pour myself into this dress, so enjoy it.”

“I’m enjoying it. I’m committing this to memory. This is goin’ on lockdown.”

I point out the table we need to head to and grab a pair of champagne flutes on the way before whispering back to him, “I’m definitely going to need help taking this off later.”

I walk off, unintentionally leaving him behind. I hear him clear his throat again. “Wait, what—“

Laughing, I don’t even respond. He’s too oblivious or too innocent or something to even get my drift. Or something. He’s something alright.

I make it to an appetizer plate, and just as I take a pile of shrimp from the college kid trying to earn a living, I see Robert Cutler.

“Hello! Long time no see,” I call out, and he gives me a grin.

“And how are you doing, Miss Cavanagh?”

“I’m better,” I say. His smile is genuine when I share that information. It’s good to know he’s got my back. He knows I had his. “How’s that dissertation?”

“I’m defending sometime next month. We should get together sometime and chat,” he says. “Remember, my phone number’s in your cell. I would love to get together and pick your brain. I believe we have a lot to discuss.”

“I think that would be a good idea,” I say, giving him the benefit of the doubt. At least he’s not being pushy like Hansen. With that, though, he gestures towards the table: it's most of the psych faculty, who helped organize the event, and me and Greg. Greg barely makes it to our table before he pulls out my seat for me. I greet Jeffrey, who gives me a once over.

“You’re looking lovely tonight, Kaitlyn.”

His curt little nod alerts me to his annoyance. He’s pissed. He’s mad I didn’t go with him to this. Oh, fuck that. Fuck. That. Robert slips into the seat next to him, and he just eyes me and Jeffrey. He stays silent. He's not touching that, I guess.

“This must be your boyfriend, then,” he says, addressing Greg, who eyes an appetizer plate that slips by.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Greg says, and I immediately panic. I told that to Jeffrey in an attempt to get him off my back. Dear God, please let him miss it. Don’t repeat it. Don’t—

“You must be Kaitlyn’s boyfriend.”

He grins out of the side of his mouth, glances at me tentatively, then nods to Jeffrey. I see both his and Robert's jaws lock in tension. “Yes. Yes, indeed. I am Kaitlyn’s boyfriend.”

“Do you… have a name?”

“Gerwitz. Greg.”

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

**February 19, 2016**  
2034 Hours  
1117 S Racine Ave APT 4M, University Village, Chicago  
KC

By the time the event is over, I’ve had just a little too much champagne and a little too much rage.

“Kate, it’s fine. Your speech was great—“

“I know it was. That’s not the point.”

“Are you still pissed over that Dr. Hansen?”

“I’ll kill him,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“He doesn’t scare me, you know,” Greg says, guiding me on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so bad from these heels, and the alcohol didn’t help.

“That’s not… that’s not the point. He was just trying to one up you.”

“And I could get a few cops to rough him up if you really want me to, so what? Why are you so bent out of shape?”

“It wasn’t fair to you,” I say, pulling him closer to me.

“Who, me? Your boyfriend?”

“I… I can explain. He wanted me to go with him to that dinner. He’s nice enough. But no. I had to… I had to tell him I was coming with you.”

“Your boyfr—“

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, it was the best thing I could think of.”

“It… could be true. If you wanted it to be.”

I hold my breath for a second. It’s not hard. I feel like my lungs are going to collapse. Is that what I want? Is that what I wanted before? Holy shit. Holy shit, he’s not kidding.

“If you breathe any shallower, you’re going to hyperventilate,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I panicked. Sorry,” I say, turning the corner onto my street. “I… yes. The answer is yes.”

“Seriously?”

We get to my stairs, and I hobble up, my feet throbbing. “Are you second guessing me? Is that what you want?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, leaning against the wall as I unlock my apartment. I try to suppress my smile as I do. Boyfriend. It’s such a childish word, but it brings a heat to my cheeks.

“Good. Glad that’s settled. This dress isn’t going to unzip itself,” I say, stepping inside and slipping my coat off, throwing it on the kitchen chair.

He shuts the door behind him, deadbolting it before closing the distance between us. He still looks at me like he’s trying to memorize it.

“You’re going to be alright over there?”

“I’m trying. I’m still not fully convinced this isn’t a dream.”

I turn around, pulling my hair out of the way, and he struggles with the invisible zipper a bit. I push the straps down and let the dress fall, then step out of it. There’s no way I’m going to lean over in this corset and pick it up so I leave it there.

When I look back at him, his eyes have gone wide. He holds out his hand, then holds it to his mouth, and does this gesture wordlessly a few times. I look down at myself. It’s literally nothing, but he’s losing his mind, so I play along.

“Is that—“

“A corset? Yep.”

“Can you just… give me a moment?” He moves into the kitchen, his back to me, and takes off his suit jacket. His lack of attention gives me a second to readjust my boobs in my bra and corset. Even when I look down, they look huge. When he turns back around, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

“You’re still here. Oh, good,” he mutters. “Can I just objectify you for a minute?”

“I give you permission,” I say.

“Can you just… spin for me?”

I do as he says, kicking away my dress. He lets out a low whistle.

“Shit. Holy shit.”

“I didn’t just wear this so I could fit into this dress, you know.”

“How the hell did you even get into it?”

“Erin. Jay was unfortunately present as well.”

He literally face palms. “That’s why he texted me a lot of emojis that seemed really inappropriate.”

“I told him he would die. He’s going to.”

“You’re racking up quite the body count.”

He’s stalling. While he speaks, I close the distance between us and with a gentle caress against his jaw, his mouth is against mine. It’s easy, really, when he thinks he’s dreaming.

I pull away, then manage to slip into my bedroom. He finally just follows me. Before I fully realize it, I start unhooking his belt, and I pull it from the loops, tossing it elsewhere in the room.

“Oh, come on, what if I need that later?”

I unhook his pants, leave them open, and slip my hand under his shirt, dragging my nicely manicured nails down his chest.

“Where did all this come from—“

“I’m not even sure,” I say, shrugging. “Champagne and anger. It fuels me, really. Can you just… you just accept the fact that you’re getting this tonight?”

“Oh. Well. A plus in that department.” He whistles low, giving me an awkward thumbs up. “Reaction is an A plus. Surprise factor, nailed it.”

I wait for the pun he’s inevitably going to make, but he’s drifted off, staring at my corset.

I decide to throw decorum out the window and before I can decide otherwise, I run my hand from his chest into his pants and under the band of his boxers. He’s hard, and my touch, just grazing his skin, is enough to make him gasp.

“How much of the outfit can stay on?” He asks, his voice quavering.

“As much as you want.”

“Oh, good,” he says, sounding hollow yet reassured. So in retaliation, I push his pants down to his ankles, and using his hips as support, slide down to my knees. “Holy shit. This is so not happening. This is definitely not—“

I take the length of him into my mouth. He shuts up quickly, immediately finding stability by putting his hands into my hair. I slip my lips along him, back and forth, running my tongue down him.

I finally look up at him while I take him all the way to my throat, and he bites his lip, looking away. When I give him a moment to recover by switching to my hand, I slip my tongue down his shaft and back again.

“Jesus Christ, Kate.”

“Go with it.”

“I’m—I’m going with it.”

He pulls me to my feet, kisses me hard, and I start unbuttoning his shirt. I toss it aside, then drag off his undershirt quickly, ignoring his scar.

“There are rules here,” I finally explain.

“I will literally do anything you want,” he says, and I rake my eyes over his naked body. I don’t mind objectifying him at this point. He doesn’t even react.

“If I don’t get a noise complaint out of this night, or at least someone beating on my floor or ceiling, we weren’t successful.”

I take his vote of agreement when he tosses me down on the bed. I lean down to kick my heels off, but he stops me with a hand.

“Don’t take them off. Not yet.”

“Am I fulfilling some fantasies?”

“You have no idea.”

He can’t seem to kiss me without resting his hand somewhere on the satin corset, just to make sure it’s still there. Soon, though, my breath hitches from it being so tight and his hand slips between the heat of my legs and I’m begging for release before he even begins. He runs his fingers over the hot skin of my chest, then slips his fingers into my cleavage, freeing me from my corset.

“You’re such a boob guy,” I mutter, his mouth and free hand meeting me almost immediately.

I arch into him. He comes at me hard, licking and swirling and shifting against me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, gasping against him, and it’s like the more I arch, the harder he tries. He reaches around my back, finds the clasp, and slips off my bra, but leaves the corset.

He sits up over me, taking both his hands and kneading them against me. I’m pretty sure he’s getting off watching me squirm. I reach for him, but he smacks my hands out of the way.

“No. Stay back.”

I refuse to listen, and he looks around the room then slides off the bed, opening my closet.

“I’m going to die here if this corset doesn’t come off.”

“Just wait.”

“I’ve been waiting.”

He makes some sort of ‘Eureka’ noise and comes back with something in his hands. He’s found one of my belts—one with the rings on the end, where he can slip the loop around my wrists and pull tight.

“Greg. Greg, what are you doing.” He ties the extra end around my bed frame. I’m locked in, and I’m strangely okay with it. “So with you, as soon as I claim you as my own, we get into kinky shit?”

“Oh, is this okay? I’ve really just always wanted to do it and I mean, you show up in black lingerie and a corset, I figured…”

“You figured correctly. Proceed.”

He slips a pillow under my ass, propping me up, and then positions my legs so he has ample room to admire them in my heels.

Without a word, he kisses my thigh from my knee down to the center, where all the heat has already built up, then goes down the other side. Watching him is bad enough, but feeling him makes me shudder, even as he slips my black lace underwear off.

“You’re going to make this easy, aren’t you?” He says, positioning himself so he could hook his arms around my thighs. I try to move, just for good measure, but I can’t—his strong arms have locked me in tight.

I watch him slide his tongue against me. I naturally jolt, and once the natural reaction has faded, he bears down on me, his hands coming to rest on the satin and boning of my corset.

He slides one hand up, just far enough to grasp me, and he makes it that much worse. This is exactly what I had in mind. Damn. Damn. He soon switches sides, and pulls just enough away from me to speak.

“You are so tense. Loosen up,” he says, and I feel his lips moving against me. I take a heavy breath, trying to loosen my muscles, and he kisses my thighs until I do. When he moves back to me, I’m not as tense, and he shifts that much faster, until he changes tactics once more: he moves his free hand between my legs and slips a finger inside me.

I cry out, wet and wanting, as he curls his fingertip inside me.

“Dammit, Greg, I didn’t know… I didn’t know you had it all of this in you,” I mutter.

He draws away from me just long enough to speak. “Are you doubting me? Have you seen this face?”

“Smart and hot,” I say, “And a little bit of a criminal.”

“Of course I’m a little bit of a criminal,” he says, slipping his finger out of me. I whimper, wishing he would go back. “What the hell was that? You’re so much better than that, Kate.”

“I’m wearing this corset for you,” I gasp, “You better believe I want to make this worthwhile.”

I take a sharp, audible breath, and try not to exhale it too loudly but it comes out as a moan. One finger becomes two, and he moves his other hand to me as well, freeing his mouth.

The rhythm he creates is fast and hard, and the look on his face is pure enjoyment as he watches me.

“You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t stop gasping so much,” he says conversationally.

“I’m already—already lightheaded.”

The next moan I let out is the loudest, and it makes him pull back from me, pull out of me.

“Why—no, come back.”

He reaches over me to grab a condom from his stash and I watch him slip it on, but when he comes back, he loosens my restraints just a little, takes me by the hips and flips me over onto my knees and elbows.

“This is unexpected,” I breathe, looking over my shoulder to him. He centers against me from behind. He uses his knee to separate my thighs, and he sinks his fingers into my hips, brushing the edge of the satin, as he pushes into me. His thrusts start out slow and deep. He holds onto my hips, pulling me deeper onto him.

I barely have time to adjust when he grabs onto my breasts as a hand hold, squeezing them in time with his heavy thrusts. All I can do is try to stay upright as he fucks me.

My arms shake, and spots appear in front of my eyes. It’s like he knows this, because I feel him begin to untie my corset. His thrusts slow in comparison. With each slow, deep thrust, I hear the ribbon of the corset pop through another hole. While he’s distracted, I start to slip my bonds.

“Are you unlacing it completely?” I finally gain the breath to ask.

He loosens it just enough to slip his hands underneath. “I’m still savoring it, okay?”

“It’s not going to disappear after tonight, you know.”

“I’m pretending like it might.”

With a gentle hand on the silk, the ribbon gets thrown to the floor. He pulls the corset away, and I inhale and exhale deeply. It’s the best breath I’ve gotten all night. And with that, I slip my wrists out of my bonds and slip away from him; before he has a chance to react, I push him down to the bed sheets.

“That was—that was impressive,” he says, nodding. He doesn’t make any move to stop me when I straddle him and take him into me. He tucks his hands under my pillow, watching me as I move back and forth against him, my red nails against his tight chest.

“I’m—I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” he mutters, leaning on his hands and sitting up. I shift, pulling my legs behind his back and sinking that much deeper into him. He crosses his legs under me, then traces his hands from my hips to my shoulder blades. A shoulder blade and my scar.

I slip my hands across his jaw, to his neck, and pepper his jawline with kisses. I kiss him until we both gasp. I kiss him until he lets his lips wander to my chest. The night that started so hot is ending so tenderly—not that I’m complaining. The alcohol and anger fade when he looks up at me, just me, pulling back my hair as I move my hips against him.

My heavy exhales become breathy moans. I can’t help it. And when he uses one hand to support me and drops the other between us, to touch me, I gasp, sinking my nails into his back. He doesn’t even cringe. I don’t have time to think about that right now.

“Greg, I’m really—I’m really happy you—“

“Yeah, yeah, me too,” he mutters, pulling me into him and cutting me off with another kiss. I can’t quite finish it. I don’t have enough air.

I might as well have kept the corset on. I gasp, I let out the air, I gasp again, I feel the waves starting. I grasp onto him, I’m nearly there, and he pushes me back and forth, a guiding hand on my back, keeping me going. I whimper, I bite back my lip, but he doesn’t move his hand, he runs circles around me, adding to it, causing it to start that much quicker. Like he’s trying to make it worse, he takes my nipple in his mouth, twirling his tongue around it.

Everything just happens at once: I don’t get a warning, it doesn’t happen in waves, it builds all at once. He draws his hands from me and sinks his fingers into my back. I arch into him, into his waiting hands, whispering his name.

“You should—you should do that always,” he says between pants, between breaths. And every time I do, I get louder. I can’t help it. I build, everything inside me builds, it comes to a point when it all becomes clear.

I can’t help but let out a strangled cry, a high moan, his name, all at once. We clutch to each other, and I know he comes too. We throb around each other, inside each other, outside each other. I wish it would last forever, but eventually it ends, both of us sweating and shaking and weak in each other’s arms.

When the only sound is us panting, he finally speaks. “That dude should piss you off more often.”

I huff. “I don’t want to think about that right now. Besides, no noise complaints yet. Your work is not done.”

He looks at me with smirk and a casual shrug. “Oh, damn. I’m so disappointed.”


	11. I’ll soon go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouse drops the bomb on Kate, and it's completely personal. When she's brought to the station to debrief about this looming serial killer and his connection to her, she realizes what she has to do.

**March 7, 2016**  
0953 Hours  
University of Illinois— Chicago  
KC

This cold has yet to let up. I was so used to being hot all the time, but this feels even worse—like I’m being burnt alive with every cold step outside.

I’m actually in a good mood. A lot of good things have been happening lately: the nightmares have started to subside, the chronic pain from my shoulder has decided to lessen. I have an apartment, a job, a boyfriend—

I smile and check my phone. I haven’t heard from him this morning, so that probably means he was on a case until late last night.

“Miss Cavanagh!”

I turn across the quad and see Robert Cutler, a wide smile on his face as he closes the distance between us. “Dr. Cutler! Congratulations on your new title!”

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says. “How have you been doing?”

“Much better,” I admit. It’s not a lie for once. It actually feels good to say. “Much better. I’ve been seeing someone at Gaffney, and it’s helping.”

“Well, just remember, I am always available for a chat,” he says. “I actually have some things I would like to run by you after the gala presentation. Perhaps I could come by your office?”

“Absolutely!” Finally, a guy who knows some boundaries. “You can give me a call, I’ve got regular office hours, but I tend to be there some evenings, too.”

“I will make sure to do that,” he articulates. I start to walk away but I hear him clear his throat again. “Kaitlyn, I recognize that your boyfriend works for the CPD?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “What… what are you asking?”

“It’s a shame about those murders,” he says. “A shame. Your predecessor was a good friend of mine.”

“I didn’t know her,” I say. I never thought to look into it, really. Should I? Maybe that’s what he wants to talk to me about. Maybe I should meet with him sooner rather than later.

“I hope they solve them soon,” he says sadly. “Well, off to class!”

I watch as he leaves. He’s an interesting man, to say the least, but maybe he really does know more about this case than I thought. Maybe it’s something worth talking to Jay about.

* * *

**March 7, 2016**  
1022 Hours  
University of Illinois— Chicago  
Mouse

I slip into the back of the classroom, letting Kate continue her lesson before I interrupt her. I don’t want to give her this news, but someone has to. Someone has to, before she hears it on the 6 o’clock murder announcements.

They’re getting closer and we’re banding together but nothing seems to work. Nothing makes sense. Not even her History Since 1648 class makes sense. She’s fairly far behind—she’s only to the end of the American Revolution—but I guess that’s to be expected in a general education course. They’re never on time. Plus, I guess it’s safe to say she already covered Asian History and African History, so she’s not doing that badly.

At this point, she’s facepalming at the front of the room. "How many of you actually know who I'm talking about?"

There's one or two hands. She's got to remember, a lot of these kids aren't from Chicago. It's not that big of a deal for them—

I jump as she slams her hands on the desk. Most of the kids don't even react; a few of them start to chuckle. She puts her hand on her hip, and her brow furrows. With her hand on her hip, it pulls her blazer away from her t-shirt underneath. It’s a distressed tee with the Captain America shield on it.

"Casimir Pulaski. Casimir Pulaski Day is a Chicago holiday! He was a Polish Revolutionary War cavalry officer. The father of American cavalry! His contributions to our military and the American Revolution were astronomical!"

"Here we go," one of the students whispers next to me. I chuckle.

“You’re Cap’s boyfriend, aren’t you?”

A voice from behind me leans forward to whisper at me. I lean back to look at the kid. “Maybe. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

“Nah, we love Cap. She cares a shit ton about us learning, so if she’s got to do it in a different way, she does it.”

“Is she a hardass?” I can’t help but ask.

She shrugs. “She expects a lot out of her classes, but it’s not hard to get an A. If you know the material, you can pass. First test we had was a Blue Book, but she’s definitely getting more creative. We got her that shirt a while back. She wears it a lot.”

I focus on her rant again. Apparently, she's mad that UIC didn't give them a day off because it should be a recognized holiday.

"He saved the life of who? George Washington, everybody! He reformed the entire American cavalry! In 2009, Congress passed a resolution giving Pulaski honorary U.S. citizenship. He was only the seventh person in our history to be honored like that."

She looks smug. I don’t want to wipe that off her face in a few minutes with what I have to tell her.

"Alright, new paper topic! Find a name you've never heard of from the Revolutionary War. 5 pages. What, a week? Two weeks? Let's go two weeks. Casimir Pulaski, Baron von Steuben. Charles Lee, but he was a little bitch. If any of you do a paper on a character from _Hamilton_, automatic point deduction. de Kalb! Horatio Gates! Daniel Morgan, Francis Marion—if any of you have seen the terribly misleading film _The Patriot_, Mel Gibson's character was partially based on him—oh! Tadeusz Kościuszko!"

"Bless you," one of the kids in the front row says.

"Alright, you can leave once you tell me who you're doing your paper on. Get on Wikipedia or ask me for ideas." She leaves the group at the front of the room, looking dumbly at one another, then vaults the first row of empty chairs and saunters up to me.

“What, didn’t think I saw you?” she says, sliding down into the desk. She puts her feet up on the top.

I swallow hard, watching her face. I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to have to tell her. God, when is this guy going to let up? He’s to sixteen. One more, and he’s on par with Dahmer. And one of her students, nonetheless.

They start a line in front of her, and on her attendance sheet, she starts writing down names. Eventually, she got to the last few and started assigning.

“They seem to like you," I whisper.

“I get on their level.”

“What, hungry and hungover?”

She nods, and whether it’s in agreement or respect, I don’t know.

“Something’s bothering you,” she immediately says. “There’s a reason you’re here in the middle of the morning.”

“There is.”

“I’m not going to like it, am I?” she says, surveying her classroom.

“No. No, you’re not.”

“I’ll have to put down Olivia for a topic. She’s not here today,” she mutters, looking at the list and back out to the empty lecture hall. “She never misses class. Not on lecture… day.” Kate looks at me, and when her face falls, I know she’s pieced it together.

“Don’t even say it.”

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

She slams her hand on the desktop, making me jump.

“Dammit. Dammit! God, dammit. Why her? Why did it have to be her?”

“I wish I cou—“

“You know what I wish? For someone to catch this bastard!”

“Kate, that’s the other thing. Jay… Jay’s asked you to come to the precinct. We’re starting to notice some connections. Once we found Olivia, we—well, I—found out some other ways Olivia’s connected to the other victims. Especially recently.”

“I don’t want to know,” she says sharply, getting up, putting her laptop into her bag, and thrusting papers inside. They fold up, crumple under the pressure. I’m about to crumple under the pressure.

“Kate, the victims since the start of February have had at least some sort of vague connection to you.”

She pauses, looks up to me. At first, she’s pissed, then concerned, and then I think I see fear.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’re talking about… one victim being picked up after visiting the same grocery store as you the same night. I watched all the footage. From that, to—to the barista at the Starbucks you always go to. And then Olivia.”

“Are you trying to tell me this guy may be after me?”

I swallow hard, trying to suppress my own fear. God, I can’t lose her now. She’s barely been mine.

“It’s enough of a possibility that Jay asked you to come to the precinct.”

* * *

**March 7, 2016**  
1234 Hours  
Chicago Police Department, District 21  
KC

I don’t know whether to mourn her loss or get so pissed I break some bones. Both, probably. Both. My God. Quiet little Olivia. Girl who brings me a small black coffee every once in a while, just because she can. Dead. Gone because of a fucking serial killer.

I sit on top of Jay’s desk. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, mostly to hide my heaving breaths. Even Greg knows not to cross me. The only voice I hear is Voight’s.

“Anything you can tell us potential enemies, or someone you’ve wronged, we need to know now.”

“Dr. Jeffrey Hansen.”

“That was quick,” Dawson says from his cubby. “What’d you do to him?”

“Denied his advances? I don’t know. He comes on very strong. He’s been freaking me out lately. He’s creepy. That’s worth something, isn’t it? He works at UIC. Besides, why the hell would someone come after me?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Voight says, looking to Greg. “Mouse, you got anything else?”

He rips the headphones from his head, shaking it vehemently. “Nothin’ new, boss. I’m combing over the footage again.”

“Do it a third time if you’ve gotta. Jay, you and Erin are on protective duty.”

I slip off Jay's desk. “Like hell do I need a detail.”

Voight finally turns to me. I feel myself straighten. “Fifteen women. Fifteen women are dead, and you don’t think you need protective custody? I don't care if you think you're capable.”

The way he comes at me, my hands slip behind my back and I realize what I’m doing only after I’ve done it. “I understand, sir.”

“Swallow your pride and understand there are more lives at stake than just yours, Cavanagh.”

“Yes, sir.”

They continue speaking around me, discussing what to do next, what they could possibly plan on, where he would strike next. It’s all swirling around me in a fucking cloud of murder speak. I’ve been here before. I’ve been the odd man out in a tactical discussion. It’s not fun. It’s never been fun. They’re planning my fate and I don’t even have a say in the matter.

My team, at least they figured it out closer to the end. They knew I had ideas. They knew what I could come up with was sometimes better than what they could. They had skill, they had the know-how, they had battle worn skins, but they didn’t have what I did: manipulation. Let the other side think they have the upper hand and then strike.

“Put me in undercover,” I say loudly. “Put me out there, set me as bait. If he wants me, give me to him on a silver platter. Put me on the street on his normal haunts and wait for Hansen to try to take me.”

“No. No, not happening,” Jay says, waving his hands in front of himself. “No. Kate, not an option.”

I look to Greg, whose face just goes a nasty shade of pale as he sets his jaw.

“You all know I can kick ass. And if you’ve got me on a short technological leash, I’ll be fine. If it’s done right, we can do this tonight. We can catch him tonight. You all have to trust me.”

Without hesitation, Jay grabs my arm and pulls me towards the stairwell. It’s time for a chat, I guess, and we accidentally pick up Greg on the way down. They double team me on the landing.

“This is a horrible idea,” Jay begins.

“You know more than anyone what I’ve been through. A serial killer doesn’t scare me.”

Greg crosses his arms tight over his chest and taps his feet against the steps. He makes himself smaller when he’s nervous. “It should. It really should, Kate. I’ve seen what he’s done. I know what he’s been doing, and now he’s after you. Do you really want to be so flippant about this? This is dangerous. This is life or death.” He trails off, looking extremely uncomfortable. It’s enough to make my heart hurt.

Jay cuts in like they’ve planned this speech. “Sixteen people! One more, and he’s on par with Dahmer. We can’t send you out there. I’m not going to let you do it, Mouse isn’t going to let you do it.”

“And what are we going to do, let another girl die just because you didn’t think I could?”

“Please don’t do this.” His voice cracks and I don’t like seeing him this serious. He runs a hand through his hair again like he does pretty much any time he has an emotion.

“Do you want to keep stringing this along? Do want him at the top of the Most Prolific Serial Killers list on Wikipedia? Because I don’t. I want him to fade into obscurity. You both forget this is not the worst thing I’ve done. We have all killed people. We have all done things we regret. Don’t let this be one of them.”

Greg tries one more time. “Kate, please. You don't know these women that he's taken."

"Some of them are Vets," Jay adds. "You're dismissing them completely. Mouse and I... we've combed over the lives of every single one. And they're just as capable as you are."

"I can't, guys. I can't let him continue. I don't have to be... I don't have to be on the road. Put me in my office, and see if he comes to me. You can be there in seconds. If it doesn't work, I'll... I'll let you come up with a different plan."

They glance at each other, and they seem to think it's the only way to compromise.

I may not be in battle, or war, or in fatigues, but this is something I have to do. I slip past the two of them and back to Voight. “I’ll do it. If you put me out there, I’ll do it.”

He considers my statement. “This asshole is a murderer. He beats his victims. He’s a rapist. He’s an arsonist. He’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen. You sure you want to step into the ring with this guy?”

“Yes, sir.” I’m not the least bit hesitant. He surveys me for a moment. It takes him all of two seconds to nod to Greg.

“Get her rigged for a wire. We’ll prep the van. Take it straight to the source: we’re goin’ to UIC.”


	12. Burn the fiendish effigy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate waits for the other shoe to drop, and it's not what she expects. She can only hope and pray her training or the team makes it to her before he can.

**March 7, 2016**   
**1412 Hours**   
**Chicago Police Department, District 21**   
**Mouse**

She doesn’t say a word to me as I fit her for a wire. Nothing. Not a mumble, not a syllable. She sets her jaw and stares off at the wall. I’m trying to not think about it, I’m trying not to consider what would happen if it goes wrong, but it doesn’t matter now. She’s got her mind set on this and it’s the only way we’re going to catch the guy. I know that. I just don’t want to admit it to her. I can’t admit it to her.

“You about done?” She asks, and I jump.

“Wh—what?”

“Your internal monologue. You’ve got that slightly concerned, vacant look on your face.”

She gives me just a hint of a smile. She said that to me before we more or less got together. I remember. It was in the rain outside of the precinct.

I stop checking the wire to make sure it works and look up to her. “Kate, you don’t have to do this. You can back out now and no one is going to think any less of you.”

“I’m not going to do that, and you know it,” she says, fixing her hair around her blazer collar. She still doesn’t look at me. “You know I’m not going to back down.”

“I know you’re not,” I sigh. “I know you’re not, and that’s what scares me the most about all this. What if he grabs you? What if we can’t get to you? What if—“

“Life is surrounded by what ifs,” she says, lowering her voice so the others can’t hear. “What if we caught him earlier? What if I had said yes to Hansen? Would Olivia still be alive? He started long before I got here, but he’s definitely fixated on me for some reason. What if—what if I just never came back?”

“Stop. Stop that. No. Please—please don’t say that.”

“What if I’m upsetting the natural order of the universe? What if, what if?”

“What if we never got together?” I say with finality, and she stops. For the first time, she stops her monologue.

“That’s not what I meant, Greg.”

“Well I thought about it. You’re going on this rant about you and what you’ve been through, what about all of us? What about the cases we’ve had to watch unfold and go cold because we can’t catch this guy? You’ve got to understand, we all want to make this happen. We want this to go right. But we can’t do it at the expense of you! This is serious. You’re not a cop. You don’t have a gun. You can’t protect yourself from that.”

“You know what Jay told me about situations like this?” She says, kissing my cheek. “That’s why you have backup.”

Voight calls for everyone to round up and head out in their respective vehicles, heading for campus. Jay knows I don’t like any of this. We’re on radio silence: Jay holes up on the quad, headphones in his ears and his face on his phone. We station Erin at one of the lounge areas inside the building. Atwater and Ruzek mill about the Dunkin Donuts across the quad, while Olinsky and I head up the surveillance van. Voight sits in the front seat of his car in the parking lot, barking out orders.

This would be a normal run for us, but unfortunately, Kate’s life is a stake.

We settle in for a long night.

* * *

**March 7, 2016**  
2022 Hours  
University of Illinois—Chicago  
KC

I was expecting this to happen much quicker. I check my watch. We’ve been here for six hours. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and no one’s talked to me in three hours.

“Is it time to wrap this party up?” I ask the air.

I check my phone. A text comes through from Greg. _No visual on Hansen. We’re heading out for the night. Wait ten minutes for a few of us to clear, Voight said._

Greg is pissed. I can’t help it. He knows we have to do it, and I’ll do it again if I have to. And again. No one else needs to die. I grab my bag, thankful for the all clear, at least.

“Oh. Hello, Kaitlyn.”

I turn around, I look at the door, and I see Cutler.

“Dr. Cutler, I was just leaving.”

“Would you like an escort?”

“Naturally.”

The rest of the conversation goes through the rigmarole of small talk. The weather—how it looks like it would rain—the political campaign… nothing close to what I want to know. Nothing close to an attack.

"So at the gala last month," he says, "Your date. Is he a friend, or something more serious?"

I chuckle. I hate the fact that we might still be on comms, but I know I have to play this like I'm not wearing a wire. "He's a friend, yes, but we're also together. Why?"

"I was just wondering," he says, and I'm a little bit confused. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your apartment in peace. See you tomorrow?”

“Of—of course. Thank you,” I say to him, wandering out of the Quad and down the now empty sidewalk. “Well that was weird,” I whisper to the thin air. I hope they heard all of that. I hope they have it on record, at least. For whatever reason, I don’t know. But if it’s him, he wasn’t taking me. He had a perfect opportunity. He had a perfect—

An arm cuts off my windpipe. Someone puts me in a headlock. I step behind them, grab their arms, and drop to the ground, bringing whoever it is with me. They let me go, I somersault and rebound, but the light here is too low, and the rain’s already started. It’s already clouding my vision. I feel something sharp, something spark, and I rip my battery pack out of my belt. The wire’s dead. I throw it to the ground.

The thunder starts and I’m ready to lay this guy out. I hope to God they’re coming. I’m not hopeful at this point, but if my wire goes dead, maybe they’ll track me down. Maybe. Maybe.

He makes another run at me. I slip his punch, I land a few on his sides, but he doesn’t react. I’m sure he’s dealt with this before. I just need to get him into the light. I need to know who it is. I need to know who wants me dead so badly.

I’m laid out on the ground. He threw a haymaker, I think, I’m not positive—I slip on the grass, and I slam my body onto the ground. He grabs me, flips me over, and suddenly, he’s got me pinned. I’m pinned, he’s on top of me, and he throws a punch. I can’t slip this one. It jars me.

I immediately grab his torso, pin his leg under mine, pin his arm and flip as hard as I can. When he’s on the ground, the ambient light from the Quad illuminates his face.

It’s Cutler. I can tell from here. What the fuck?

He doesn’t even say anything as he gets up and goes for my neck one more time. He tries to push me down, but I throw out my foot and push him in the opposite direction, knocking him to the ground again.

He groans, getting to his feet. I try to kick him over, but he grabs my foot and throws it back down. He knows I’m not going to leave. But why is it Cutler? Why now?

I think about screaming, but I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Greg. I don’t have time to say anything, because I slip it back into my pocket and dodge another punch.

“What the hell do you want, Cutler? After I saved your life?” Pick up, Greg. I hope you can hear me. He might kill me before you get to me. But Cutler, he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t say a word, and he just comes at me one more time. He’s relentless. He's got a gun in his hand.

You’ve survived war, and bombs, and explosions and chest wounds and you’re freezing now, of all places—

“Robert, be reasonable.”

I feel the gun before I see it. It smashes across my head—

**Mouse**

The feed goes out on Kate’s wire. Shit. I blame the weather. We didn’t plan for this. Well, I didn’t plan for this. Unfortunately, my electronics don’t like it when there’s thunder and lightning.

Jay slips into the van with Erin, and we start towards the other side of campus to find Atwater and Ruzek.

“That went well,” Jay huffs, shaking the water from his hair. Erin just glares at him. I’m not going to get into it. It’s not worth it at this point.

My phone starts vibrating, and I see it’s Kate. She’s probably worried about the wire not working.

“Hello?”

“—hell do you want, Cutler? After I saved your life?”

I hear a struggle. She’s hitting someone. Or someone’s hitting her. I snap my fingers at Jay, and put it on speakerphone.

“Robert,” her voice shakes. She sounds weak. She sounds tired. “Be reasonable.”

There’s a sound, a sick sound, a hollow sound of something hard hitting bone. The loud sound, a muffled sound of someone falling.

Jay looks up at me in horror.

We both know what happened. He’s got her.

**KC**

My head pounds. I try to wake up, but even trying makes my head throb even worse. He pistol whipped me. That’s what happened. That’s how I got in this fucking place. Where am I? Where even is here—a… a church. An abandoned church. The rain falls loud on the roof. In the holes, it leaks onto the floor.

A familiar place, full of color and disarray. I’ve been here before. I’ve been here?

He took me. You’ve been kidnapped, KC. Okay, breathe. Breathe. You’re tied into this chair. You can’t move. You don’t know where he is. Okay. Okay—

Find a defining feature. Find something. Find—find anything. What’s on the walls? Maybe—

“Are you done?”

I try not to gasp, I set my jaw instead, and he comes out of the corner of my eye. He was behind me. Watching me. He’s always been behind me, watching. Cutler looks different now. He doesn’t look innocent. He looks like the guy who pistol whipped me and kidnapped me.

It couldn’t have been long. I couldn’t have been out that long.

“Are you at least going to tell me why?” I ask, eyeing the church’s architecture. There’s got to be something here. I’ve got to know where we are, and it’s written in the cathedral graffiti.

“Why? Why what?”

“Why… why I’m here.”

He scoffs. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even try to answer.

“Dammit, I have the right to know.”

“No. No, you don’t.”

It’s got to be late into the evening, but I hear cars. Loud cars. We’re close to 90. We’re in the city, we’re close to 90—Boniface. Saint Boniface. The church we broke into when we were kids. We’re in the front, where the altar used to be. I scan the upper walls, past the construction scaffolding, somewhere a dozen feet above us. I remember climbing the original scaffolding with the green spray paint. High above, out of reach, is what I’m looking for: KC + H2. Jay yelled at me, Will laughed. Will laughed when I nearly fell, too.

It’s Boniface.

He picks up my phone, and I see Jay calling.

“I think I’m going to answer it.”

“Do it. He’s not going to negotiate.”

“Then why is he calling?” He asks, but I can’t answer. He just takes the call and puts it on speakerphone.

“KC’s phone, how may I help you?”

“Listen. I want proof of life. Is she alive?”

“Oh, she’s alive,” he answers. “She’s fine, aren’t you, KC?”

He holds the phone towards my mouth. “Jay, don’t negotiate. Don’t try to knock down his jail sentence, Jay, don’t—“

He ends the call and tosses my phone to the side. It skids on the ground. He grabs my chin, he pulls it up to make me look at him.

“You know all about what it is I do, don’t you?”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

“Yes.”

"Good.”

“My question is why. Why me. Why now. Why—“

I hear him pour some sort of liquid, then his hand—and a damp rag—are around my mouth. It smells sweet. I know what it is. I try to hold my breath, I have to hold my breath, but I take a deep breath and I—

**Mouse**

Back at the office. He’s done with the call, and Jay nearly throws the phone across the room. I didn’t have time to trace the damn thing. I don’t know if I could. Focus, Mouse. Focus.

“It’s been an hour,” Voight says to the room. I know. I know already. I’ve been feeling every minute. God, where the hell is she? “We don’t have a location yet. Keep trying.”

“He’s going to pick an abandoned place that he can burn. Look outside of the area. He could be going big if she was the one he wants. Mouse, keep trying to run the trace.”

I nod, resisting the urge to snap off, and start in. Erin lays a hand on my shoulder. She brings me a cup of coffee, but the smell of it makes me want to puke.

I start running a trace on her phone. I know it’s not going to work. I keep trying.

**KC**

When I wake up the next time, I’m hanging from my wrists from some scaffolding. I’m so tired. My arms already hurt. How long was I out this time? My mouth is dry, and my wrists throb. The rope is too tight, but if I slip my hands up onto the metal, I can use it to kick out if I needed to.

And he stands right in front of my line of sight. I could do it. But he just grins at me.

He holds a long piece of wood, probably scrap, in his work-gloved hands. I know what’s next on his agenda.

“Don’t you even think about—“ I start, but the air gets knocked out of me. I can’t breathe for a second. My entire ribcage shifts, my entire body moves to the other side and I feel like something breaks and shatters. This is where he starts: pre-mortem beatings. He’ll shatter my rib cage, puncture a lung. Make it hard to breathe. Break an ankle or kneecap so if I do escape, I can’t run away. That’s next on his list.

“Why—why me?” I force as he approaches me. I don’t look, I can’t look, eyes front soldier—

Palm of his hand, slow drive into my ribs. I gasp. Then it’s the first time I hear myself whimper. He reaches up, up to the sleeve of my t-shirt, around my collar, and pushes it down around my shoulder.

“Nice scar.”

“Yeah, and I got it serving my country. What the fuck is your malfunction? Why?”

Instead of responding, he wields his board again. I know he’s going for the kneecap with the wind up, but I’ve got a wind up of my own. I reach up, grab the warped metal, and slam my boots into his chest. He slams to the ground, his head hitting part of the metal machinery. Good enough. I start ripping at the ropes, come on, break, break, dammit—

I exhale, albeit painfully, and he hasn’t gotten up yet, but I pull my thumb into my hand and use the other to start slipping the rope off. Just another inch. I can get it. I can get it—

One hand free, left to pull out the other. God, it’s hard to breathe. Do it faster, KC. Jesus. I’ve nearly got it. Don’t think about—don’t think about the house collapse. Don’t think about the gunshot wound, don’t think about Will and Jay and Greg—

My hand slips out, and I drop to the ground. Regain your footing. Regain something, c’mon—

I start running. I find the door, I start running. I can get out of this. I can escape. I can—

The gun goes off. I see the soldier. I see the women. I see the broken-down house. I see the explosions, I see the sand, I taste the sand, I feel the pain and the blood and—

He winds a piece of rope around my left wrist and starts dragging me across the floor by it, leaving a trail of blood in front of me. My knee throbs, both sharp and dull seemingly at the same time. I can’t even look at it.

He bounces me over a broken strip of ceramic tile. I jolt. I cry out.

“I knew you’d be a hard one, but I didn’t realize you would be this fun,” he comments. He throws the rope back over the scaffolding, dragging me upwards, but this time, he ties my hands separately so I can’t grab onto the beam and my feet don’t touch the ground. I dangle just from my wrists, and I can’t even get any momentum to do anything. My knee bleeds. The blood trickles to the ground. I can feel it on my skin. I can hear it dripping.

Focus. Focus. Don’t think about the gunshot wound to my knee. Don’t—don’t feel it. Think. Pistol whipped. Kneecapped. Possible broken ribs. You’ve had worse, KC. You’ve had worse.

What’s the next step? I tried to escape, and that’s never happened before, so he might change his game or he might bring it back on track. Think—think like you’ve been trained.

God, please. Something. Think of something, dammit, KC—

Where did my phone go? He’s kicked it to the ground. I see it in the dirt. I almost laugh at the hack Greg did on my phone. I’ve only got one shot. God, please.

“Hey, asshole!” I call out, clearly, as clear as I can. I see the screen go black. My Siri opens—I hear footsteps. “Call Jay,” I say, my peripheral on my screen as he stomps back to me, carrying some sort of small barrel. I don’t want to know what’s inside. I probably know. He’s got a lighter in his shirt pocket.

“Talk to him. We can come up with something. Listen to me. You don’t have to do this. Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

I watch for a moment. He’s pouring whatever it is on the floor. It’s gasoline. I feel my heart drop.

“Cutler. C’mon. I saved your life once. You don’t have to do this to me. You don’t. We can—I can try for a deal, okay? I can.”

He doesn’t listen. I go for broke. I hope to God the phone is working. Please let it work. I’m in a church. Please let it work. I know I haven’t been to Mass in years but—

“We’re not far from campus. We’re not far from the precinct. I know why you took me here. This is Saint Boniface. Look—look up. Those are my initials. I’ve been here before.”

He’s suspicious. He drops the can and storms towards me, and his eyes go to my phone. I hope to God Greg had enough time.

“Please. Please, don’t—no!”

He smashes it under his foot, then grabs his handgun. He winds back. I don’t even feel it.

**Mouse**

Nothing. I’m getting nothing. God, dammit, we’ve got nothing. The trace, it still runs, and Ruzek, Atwater, and Olinsky have taken to the streets to comb any possible abandoned building. But otherwise, we’re just looking. We’re waiting for a call or for a 9-1-1 to report a body.

I’m looking at the shards of my coffee mug on the floor before I realize I’ve thrown it into the file cabinet. I head to the break room, slam shut the door and sink to the floor. Dammit, Mouse, you can do better than this. You can fucking do better than this.

“Hey. Hey, man. Listen to me. Don’t go down that road. Just don’t.”

I look up to Jay. He’s leaned down in front of me, his jaw set like he’s ready to take a punch.

“We knew this was going to happen. Jay, we knew it was. We shouldn’t have done this to her. We shouldn’t have let her.”

“That’s the thing, Mouse. You just don’t tell Kate to do or not do something. You don’t ‘let’ her do anything. She’ll do it if she wants to.”

“And it’s going to get her killed if we don’t find her.”

“She’s not going to die,” Jay says, standing up. He reaches out his hand to me. “She’s not going down like this.”

“I know. I know she’s not. She can’t. She can’t—“ my voice cracks.

“She can’t what?” He asks quietly.

“She can’t leave me, man. I need her too much.”

He looks down at the floor. “Me too, Mouse. Me too. You… do you—“

“Yeah, I do.” I add quickly. “I do.” I take his hand, and as soon as he pulls me up, Erin sprints across the room.

“We’ve got another call!” Erin yells. “She’s calling. Run the trace!”

I immediately start a back trace. It’s our only chance. It’s our only chance if we’re going to find where she is. I slide across the edge of my desk and start the trace before Jay answers.

“Kate—“

“Please. Please, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” The sound of some sort of liquid hitting the floor. We hold our breaths. I pray to every god that the trace goes through.

“Cutler. C’mon. I saved your life once. You don’t have to do this to me. You don’t. We can—I can try for a deal, okay? I can.”

Jay hits the mute button on his phone, suddenly aware of what she’d done.

“She activated the voice dialing,” I say as soon as he does. “Cutler doesn’t know.”

Jay holds up a hand because she keeps talking.

“We’re not far from campus. We’re not far from the precinct. I know why you took me here. This is Saint Boniface. Look—look up. Those are my initials. I’ve been here before.”

Saint Boniface. The church near where I grew up. The old abandoned cathedral.

Voight doesn’t even say words to Jay. He immediately grabs an extra clip from his desk, but we hear one more thing.

“Please. Please, don’t—no!” The sound cuts off with a muffle and a crash.

“He found the call. We don’t have a lot of time,” Jay says, grabbing his phone.

Erin starts strapping on her vest. “We have to go now.”

I stand up, and Voight finally turns his attention to me.

“I’m goin’ with you.” The words are out before I can finish.

Erin immediately goes to her desk and pulls out her spare piece. She hands it to me without flair; I check the magazine before slipping it unceremoniously into my waistband.

Voight gives me a single nod. We just have to make it before he burns the whole church down. Or worse.

**KC**

The only thing that throbs are my hands. The rope burns, the scrapes on my wrists, they feel raw, with every shift and movement, they send shooting pains down my arms. That’s the only feeling I have in my arms. Everything else is numb.

I’m trying to think, but my mind is so damn hazy from the Goddamn beating. I try—I try to take stock, but I threaten to slip into unconsciousness. He’s panicked. He knows they’re coming for him.

Kneecapped. Pistol—pistol whipped. I can’t remember now. He’s done it twice, I think? I’m not even sure. Everything’s foggy. It’s all moving too quickly. Might be a concussion.

I see the house. I see the women. I see the gun, focus, out of focus, dammit—

My ribs shift and threaten to pierce something inside me. Or out. I don’t know, they could shift enough to pierce my skin, then what happens? It’s going to happen. It’s going to happen, and I’m powerless to stop it. I have to be hopeful. I have to believe they’re going to make it before—

It’s too late. He’s doused the entire room in gasoline. It’s happening now. Maybe, maybe since they’re coming he’ll leave before—before—

I smell smoke, and I don’t know if it’s from my memory or from reality.

“Don’t do this,” I try one last time, I sound drunk, and it doesn’t even faze him. I don’t think he even hears me. I don’t know. But he’s close enough. He throws the cloth over the beam, tests the weight, then starts tying one end into a noose. I try to control my breathing. None of it works. I volunteered for this. I said I could handle it. I couldn’t handle myself. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to murder me—

He slips the noose around my neck. I fight. I push. I even nearly kick him out of the way, but he succeeds. It’s like fighting in water. He gets the rope around my neck and he tightens it just enough to be constricting.

He’s doing it. He’s really doing it—

It’s not going to be quick, I remind myself. He’ll draw it out, and make it painful. More painful. Take a deep breath, try to hold it in, he’s just going to try to—

He tightens the noose one more time. “That’s a little better, don’t you think?”

I struggle to breathe. It’s just barely too tight, tight enough for me to struggle, but too tight for me to escape.

He leaves, and he’s barely let the noose rest on the beam, let alone tighten it anymore. But he’s ready—the length slips all the way down to the floor. So he can watch me die. So he can pull as hard as he wants.

Part two starts, and the other side of the warehouse bursts into flame.

“I have to do this a little out of order, you see. You’ve made it a little complicated for me.”

“Don’t do it. There’s still t—“

He wrenches the noose, pulling my feet further off the ground by the rope, and I see spots suddenly until he releases most of the pressure. Of course he does.

“You asked me why. Seems to be an important thing for you to know.” I shut my eyes, but he grabs my chin. He forces me to look towards him. I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want—

I gasp. His hands shift under my shirt. Fight it, fight him, fight against him, KC. But I can’t. I can’t. He uses his other hand, he holds my back still, pushing up my shirt as he does. Up my side he walks his fingers, the side that has to be bruised, the broken side.

Eyes front, soldier. Eyes—eyes front. Flames lick the walls on both sides. I can taste smoke. He wrenches, my neck lifts with the pressure. Don’t pass out. Don’t—don’t pass out.

“The secret? What’s my motive, yeah? Well, Kaitlyn, I wish I had a better answer for you.”

I can’t even kick. I can’t even fight. I want to cough, I want to cough out the smoke, but he jerks once more. You have to fight. You have to. He pulls. I see spots. I can’t even think. Just—push, fight. The longer you hold out, the longer they search for you, the longer you’re alive, the less likely he’ll do it again.

His hands go to my belt buckle, and he starts to undo it, slowly, watching me try to fight against him and I can’t breathe. I clench my teeth, trying to move my body away from him. I have to do something. I have—I have to breathe. I can’t, though. I can’t. I don’t have enough strength.

Before he moves down, he wraps the rope length around his hand, twice, three times, then tucks it around his wrist so he doesn’t have to hold onto it. He pulls on it, slowly, until I can’t breathe.

I know how this ends. I know the science. I know he’ll either compress my arteries and veins, causing me to have a stroke, or—or compress my larynx or trachea and cause me to asphyxiate or—

Just one move, KC. You have one more good thing in you, by God. You… you can do this. If he—if he tries, it’ll be the last move he makes. Patience, K.C. Patience.

I loosen the tightness of my thighs, I let them hang weakly, and he slips his head between my legs unceremoniously, his fingers dancing along and threatening to move my underwear aside.

He pulls tight, wrenches my head up. Don't black out. Don't black out. I feel his hands on me. It's all I can feel. 

I just have enough strength to look down at him and his sick grin. As he looks at me, as he grins, as he threatens, I snap my thighs together, lift up, and twist. I don't stop twisting until I hear a snap, and his face goes dark. I cry out, my knee shifting when it really shouldn’t.

He drops below me, pulling the rope with him. He’s dead. He has to be. I heard—I heard his neck snap.

My toes scrape against the floor. It’s over. It’s over. He’s dead. And soon, I will be too. The signs begin. Spots seem to dance over my eyes. The fire… it spreads. I realize I’m not breathing at all. My heart beats. I can feel it in my chest, but it’s slow. I’m dying. I’m actually dying.

I’ve been through so much already. I’ve seen war. I’ve seen bombings, I’ve seen…

Fire. I’ve seen fire and darkness and smoke. And that’s what I see right now. Sweat, heat. The fire closes in. Smoke floods the room. I see spots.

I welcome the darkness. I slip into it like a warm bed, knowing I’m not coming back. I came back from eight years to be murdered, I realize, but it’s okay. It’s okay. He's dead now. I'm his last.

The pressure releases. I exhale the last time. Before I let go, I swear I hear my name.


	13. It’s a bright, bright red that colors us in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouse desperately tries to save Kate, but he soon realizes how inadequate he feels. How can he expect to love Kate if he can't even save her from him?

**Mouse**

The church is smoking when we get there. I know what that means. He’s in the wind. Kate’s dead. He’s burning the evidence.

“We’ve got a fire at St. Boniface,” Erin calls into her phone. I can see the fire inside, and I’m poised to run, but I wait. I wait. “Possible injuries inside. We need a bus and a truck immediately.”

I can see the rolling smoke. No one in there is going to survive for long. Jay immediately puts a hand on my chest, holding me back.

“Dammit, Jay. You gotta let me in there.”

Erin holds up a hand, listening into her phone, and Jay glances from her to me and back to her.

“At least ten minutes out,” she says, shaking her head.

Jay and I share one more look. We know what we’ve seen. We know what we’ve done.

Erin nods once. “Go.”

Jay and I run into the burning building. Between the fire and the smoke, we can’t see. I can’t see much of anything, but I run towards the front of the church. There’s an open part where the fire hadn’t gotten to yet, full of scaffolding.

In the front of the altar, in the midst of graffiti and crucifixes, she hangs, tied to the scaffolding. A lifeless body curls at her feet. She hangs by her wrists. A noose is wrapped around her neck. Her eyes aren’t open.

“Kate!”

I hear myself screaming before I feel it rise from my chest. God, dammit. God, dammit, this isn’t happening. This shouldn’t be happening—

I skid to a stop, unaware I had been running, pull out my knife, and hack at the ropes holding her up. She drops, I catch her, I lower her to the floor, and rip the noose off her neck. God, please, let her have a pulse, but I don’t take time to check before I unwind the rope.

The body next to her, the one with his neck bent the wrong way, is Robert Cutler.

Jay wrenches me up, and I throw Kate over my shoulder. The flames licking the rafters don’t bode well for us. We start running towards the entrance, Erin waiting at the door, with the cool air greeting us from the outside.

The air is filled with us coughing, but Jay checks Kate’s pulse. Please let her have a pulse. She has blood on her head, on her shirt… all the way down her left knee. I don’t know how we’re going to save her. She’s probably already gone.

“It’s weak, but she’s alive.” Jay positions himself and his hands over her chest, leaving me to do the rescue breathing. She’s got a pulse.

One, two, and a million seconds go by, but there’s nothing. The noose left a spindly white and purple bruise on her neck. That means she’s got to be alive, right? One, two—

“She’s not breathing, Jay. She’s not breathing.”

“Do it again, dammit!” He mutters. “Kate, you’re not doing this. You’re not doing this to me, okay? We have been through enough shit and you’re not leaving now.”

I breathe for her again, squeezing back the tears forming in my eyes. It’s probably from the smoke.

Come on, Kate. Breathe.

**KC**

Air floods my lungs. I’m not sure I remember how to breathe. Someone presses on my chest, in and out, in and out, in and—

I gasp. It burns. My entire throat burns. I hear sirens, and it feels like everything rewinds. The blackness disappears.

I hear yelling. Someone brushes my hair from my face. I can’t feel my body anymore. It’s the attack. It’s the sand. It’s the feeling of someone pulling me out of wreckage. I hear bombing, I hear gunfire.

It’s Jay’s voice. “Listen to me. Stay awake. Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t you dare. Listen to me. C’mon. Breathe. Kate, God dammit, you’re not breathing.”

He’s right, I think. I’m not breathing. Someone’s breathing for me. I feel like water gushes through my lungs, making them burn, making them strain. I taste smoke. I taste fire. I guess the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

**Mouse**

“Dammit, Jay, she isn’t—she’s not breathing, she’s not—God, dammit!”

“The bus is on its way,” Lindsay says. “5 minutes out. And 51 is already here.”

“She doesn’t have 5 minutes,” I say. She doesn’t. She’s still not breathing. I try one more time. Just one more time, right? Another—another time— She gasps for air, this one deeper than the last. She gasps, stacks her breath, gasps again. Her eyes are open, but they can’t seem to focus.

Jay checks her pulse, and he nods, the color in his face draining as he leans back on his hands. “We’ve gotta get her out of here.”

**KC**

I am shattered. I am broken into pieces.

Every inhale is accompanied by my chest expanding to meet bone fragments. Every exhale is like I’m swallowing shards of glass. And each is short, so I have to take twice as many to get enough air. To replace the air I lost.

I shudder first, and then I start shivering. That makes it worse. The cold has seeped past my skin and taken hold deep in my muscle. If it’s not numb, it’s in shattering pain. Broken bones. Broken skin. Burnt skin.

But I’m alive. I shouldn’t be alive. The street lamps nearly blind me, and the cool air hits my throat, sending it into spasms and pins and needles. I start coughing, and it courses through my entire body. I rattle. Nothing feels real.

I grasp tightly to his shirt. I think I’m grasping tightly. I’m not sure my hands still work. They’re still mostly numb. I need Greg, but I can’t focus my eyes to see.

Voight’s gruff voice just says Jay’s name, sternly.

“He’s dead. She killed him," Jay says.

It's a simple but powerful order: “Go.”

“Get in the back with her,” Jay orders. Everything is dark and warm when he slips me into the car’s back seat. Soon, my head lies on someone’s lap.

“Kate? Kate, can you hear me?”

Greg’s voice cracks, and I start to shiver. Everything is cold. My breath hurts, and I feel like slipping into the blackness once more.

“You’ve got to stay with me, Kate. You’ve—stay with me. Please.”

He intertwines his fingers in mine. At first, my fingers hurt too much to move, but I try to squeeze his hand. I’m here, I want to say. I try to open my eyes. I taste blood on my lips for the first time. He’s here. Greg’s here, and I try to say something but it comes out a weak cry.

"Hey. Hey, don’t try to talk. Don’t. I’m here, okay? I’m here, and it’s fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

I don’t really believe him. I can’t.

Faint sirens. From us or somewhere else? My mouth tastes like I swallowed sand. Everything feels like sand has been ground into me, into my lungs, into my knee. I shiver. I can’t stop shivering.

“Jay, she’s going into shock. Jay, I don’t know what to do.”

Erin yells. Into what, I’m not sure. “We didn’t have time to wait! Will, I’m sorry, but we’re inbound. ED bay doors. Now. Yes, now.”

The car stops. More than one set of hands—a stretcher. Night sky, stretching high above me. Ginger. He’s here. Ginger’s here.

“Kate? Kate, can you hear me?”

A bright light, in one eye, then the other. I cringe. “Will. Will, where’s Greg. Jay—“

“Pupils are the same size. No brain trauma. Get her to Baghdad. Now!”

For the first time, though, I hear my own voice. I hear my voice, calling out for Greg. I’m hoarse, I can barely make a sound. I grab for Will. My hand leaves a streak of blood on his white coat.

“Will—“

“Kate, I’m here. It’s Will. What the hell happened?”

I see the ceiling, I see people I know. Both Connor and Natalie. They’re all here. Jay’s here. I hear his voice.

“She was undercover to catch that serial killer. He took her. We had to track her down, but he’d already gotten to her.”

“What about him? Did you get him?”

Greg—“She killed him. Snapped his neck.”

I feel Will’s hand on my cheek. “That’s my girl.” He says a few medical things I don’t understand, and I start shivering again. “She’s going into shock—“

I can’t think. It hurts. “Will, are you… are you—“

“I’m gonna take care of you, yeah?”

We’re in high school again. I took a few punches from a kid bigger than me. “Like after Jimmy?”

He nods. “Yeah, like after Jimmy Doyle. But you’re a little bit more roughed up, okay, Kate? KC—“

I don’t know what it feels like, dying, but I can assume this is it. This didn’t happen last time. I choke on air, and my heart jumps, jumps, jumps, flips, beeps. I hear beeps. They’re erratic. I don’t hear Will anymore. I don’t feel anything except black.

**Mouse**

I know better, I know to stay out of the way, and Jay keeps a hand on my shoulder to make sure I do, but she’s coding. She’s coding and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Get a crash cart!” Is the only thing I understand coming out of the room. There’s milligrams and syringes and about a million people and I feel Jay’s hand holding me back. That’s all it takes and he knows it.

I don’t think I breathe until her heart jumps back into a normal rhythm. When I look down at my hands, they’re shaking. They’re full of ash and a few cuts and burns and I’m shaking.

I see blood. It isn’t mine.

“Mouse, you need to sit down,” Jay says, his voice steady. I know he isn’t.

“I’m not leaving Kate.”

“I’m not leaving Kate, and I will get you if anything happens,” Jay says. He’s got his commanding officer voice on, the one I can’t say no to. I nod once, and Erin pulls me off to the side, guiding me to a nearby chair. I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.

“Hey. Hey, Mouse. You need to breathe.”

“I’m breathing. I’m breathing, dammit. Don’t do this. Don’t try to calm me down. I don’t want to calm down. She still could die. We walked into a fire and she still could die. I can’t see another person die, Erin. I can’t do this again. This isn’t Fallujah. This is Chicago.”

“I know. I know. And you did more than you should have. You ran into that building to save her, Mouse. You have done everything you can. You’ve got to let Will do what he can.”

“I’m trying. I want to be in there with her. I don’t want this to happen. Not again.”

“It’s not your fault. You need to realize that right now,” she says. A nurse hands her a washcloth, and she places it in my hands. They stop shaking enough for me to rub the ash and dirt off them. Once I do, she gives me a small smirk, takes the rag, and wipes something from my face. “Look, you’re a mess, and you’ve gotta be somewhat presentable when she wakes up, right?”

I chuckle. I know I’m not being optimistic, but I saw her. I saw her.

“I heard you and Jay in the break room before.”

“What about it?”

“Jay asked you. About Kate.”

He never actually asked me anything, but we both knew. And now she’s trying to get me to say it out loud. I’m not sure I want to. I can’t jinx it. Once I admit it, it’s going to be that much harder if we lose her.

“Do you? Do you love her?”

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation. “Yeah, I love her.”

**KC**

I drift in and out. Part of it is a nightmare, and part of it is real, and I can’t differentiate between the two. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I think I talk to Will, I think I ask him about Greg, but I’m not sure. Probably because of the head trauma.

They run down the hallway, pushing me as they go. It’s serious? It’s serious. Will is at the helm. We’re in an elevator. This isn’t Afghanistan. This isn’t Germany. This is Chicago.

He speaks to me, but I can only see his mouth move. Sometimes there’s one of him, sometimes there’s two. It makes me dizzy.

Suddenly, I can hear again—

“You don’t have to worry about him, KC. He’s gone. You’re safe. You’re a hero.”

Hero? Hero. It’s something I’ve heard before. It’s something I’ve been called. Why doesn’t it feel right?

“Kate, don’t do this again,” I hear Will muttering. The beeping of the heart monitor speeds up. It’s not right. I’m losing too much blood. Too much—

Too much fire, too much sand, too much. Too much. I’m coding again. I don’t want my last thought to be overwhelming regret.

**Mouse**

If I could fast forward the hours, it would just show the number of people arriving in the waiting room. First, me, Erin, and Jay. Soon, the rest of the department shows up, including Voight. They’re silent until 51 starts filtering in: they fill up the rest of the waiting room, some still in their gear, just waiting. Waiting to hear something.

Each minute makes me feel even worse. There’s no way. I don’t want to be pessimistic, but there’s no way. She’s going to die here. She’s not going to live through this. She can’t. Not the way we found her.

It’s my fault. We let her do this. I let her do this. If I had checked the tech better, if I had checked it twice, three times, made sure it wouldn't go out, she wouldn't have gotten taken. I could have saved her. I could have saved her, and this is all my fault. It's too complicated. Everything is too loud.

Someone touches me. It’s Erin.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You need to stop. It’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine.”

I draw my feet up onto the edge of the chair, making myself smaller. I can’t believe her. I can’t. I’ve seen this shit before, I’ve seen how these things end.

With the clearing of his throat, Will appears, looking tired. Too tired. No. Please don’t—

“She’s critical, but stable. We’ll watch her the rest of the night. She had three broken ribs, and one nearly lacerated her lung. Her left wrist was heavily lacerated, while her right was broken. Severe bruising to her neck, but mostly superficial. We think she got pistol whipped—“ he clears his throat again, this time, looking pissed, “—so she has a concussion, we think. We won’t know for sure until she wakes up. Also, she had a gunshot wound to her left knee. It missed causing any major damage, but she’ll have rehab. If she makes it through to the morning, we’ll… we’ll be optimistic.”

It’s not a death sentence. It’s a glimmer of hope. Still, the squad lingers in the corner, speaking low. Erin gets up to join them, and eventually, I can't sit there anymore. I push into the group of detectives.

"She saved him during that pileup," Ruzek was saying. "It probably set him off. Made him obsessed."

"He had already started killing before her, but they started to escalate after her," Dawson says. "He started the arsons after the car wreck."

"He escalated again after the gala," Jay offers, pointing to me. "She wasn't his. That's why he brought it up before he took her. She couldn't be his."

They all look to me. I feel the blood rush from my face again. It feels like I'm getting blamed. If I hadn't gone to the gala with her, he wouldn't have come after her. He wouldn't have nearly killed her.

But if she hadn't have stepped in on the Michigan Avenue crash, he could have died. There were so many shoulds and woulds and coulds and all I can think of is the last thing she said to me.

That's why you have backup.

I sink back into the nearest chair. I don't care why he did it. I don't know if I ever really will understand. But all I know is I couldn't save her. I should have been able to stop this.

Jay pulls me up from the chair and drags me out of the waiting room. I'm barely walking before he nearly slams me into the wall of the dark hallway.

"Listen to me. This is not your fault. I can see it in your face, and you're thinking like this is your fault."

"I coulda stopped it, man," I mutter. "I could've asked her not to, I could've checked her tech better, I could've—"

"Don't do this to yourself. Don't. You're gonna go down a path you're not gonna come back from. We've done this already. We've gotten better. Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to me. I can't do this again."

"We could've stopped her," I say, even though Jay's fighting me. "We should have told her no. This is why..." I feel myself drifting off. This is why overseas, things were easy. People listened to me over there. Here, I can't even convince my girlfriend not to sacrifice herself to a serial killer. Why didn't she listen to me?!

He leaves me there, in the dark hospital hallway, to try to figure out my next emotional step.

I'm afraid he's going to be right. I already feel myself falling down that deep, dark path again. It all depends on Kate. It always depended on Kate.

**KC**

I don’t know how many hours, how many days, it’s been when I finally do wake up. My entire body feels stiff, like I don’t want to move for the next decade, and my mouth tastes like dirt and ash.

I don’t have a breathing tube. That’s good news. That’s the only good news I can find right now.

I see flashes. Fire, the church. I have a feeling they're going to stick around for a while.

When I look up, Jay is shoving Greg, who sits in the chair next to me. He looks ragged. He pulled me out…

“She hasn’t moved since the surgery.”

“She’s not awake yet. She will be, Mouse. It’s KC. We both know how she is.”

“Stubborn as fuck?” Greg chuckles. “Will said he’s optimistic, but we both know that’s Will.”

“He wouldn’t lie to you, dude. Go get some food or something. I’ll wait for you.”

A shuffling of tired feet, and then a familiar sigh from Jay.

“KC, you gotta wake up. You can’t go down like this.” He sits for a minute. I almost drift back to sleep, but I wait. He still speaks. “Greg needs you, you know. I doubt he’ll admit it, but he does.”

I can’t do it any longer. If I don’t open my eyes, I’ll fall asleep again. Maybe just for a moment, until I hear Greg again.

“Hey. Anything new?”

“Nah. She’s breathing a little better though.”

I have to wake up. I have to. I try to clear my throat, but nothing happens. It’s basically raw. My head floats, though.

“Holy shit, Kate! Get Will. She’s awake.”

“Mouse?” My voice is barely there. My eyes are still hazy, but I can see him there.

“Hey, Kate. Yeah, I’m here.”

I start to piece it together. I snapped his neck, the building was on fire. Someone forced me to breathe…

“You… you pulled me out.”

“I did. I did pull you out. Jay and I did.”

Jay comes back, his brother in tow, who starts checking my vitals with a stoic look on his face. He looks like he wants to be relieved, but wants to be professional.

“Vitals are stable. Kate, I swear to God, if you ever try to pull something like that again—“

“I won’t,” I nearly whisper. “For the sake of your ancient heart.”

“How many painkillers did you give her?” Jay asks.

“Let’s think about it for a second. She was pistol whipped, has a concussion, has three broken ribs, a broken wrist, and busted kneecap. How many painkillers do you think she needs?”

I thought about singing something to Will, but after his short speech, I decide it isn’t a good idea.

"I'm glad you killed him," Jay mutters. It’s not my first kill. Hopefully it’s my last. But the weight of it all… it comes crashing down on me. It makes my head throb. He nearly raped me. He nearly killed me. But my training saved me. What I learned to do before… it saved my life.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad decision, joining the Army, but it couldn’t save the rest of them. My vision blurs and I can’t stop. I hear murmurs of it not being my fault, but I know that. I know that. None of this was my fault, but he’s dead. I stopped him. I stopped him, and I almost died doing it, but he’s dead.

I finally feel like I’ve finished what I’ve started.

There’s a little more justice in the world after this. He wasn’t the man who shot me in Afghanistan, but he was someone who killed more people than he should have.

I may have been shattered, but for once, I finally feel like I’ve been broken enough that I can heal.


	14. Epilogue: And while I’m alive, I’ll make tiny changes to earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate hopes the worst is past. At least, it is for now.

**June 1, 2016  
****1347 Hours**  
??  
KC

“Dammit, Greg. Just because I don’t need my cane anymore doesn’t mean I can walk without seeing.”

“Would you let me do this? Please? Stop complaining.”

“I’m constantly complaining.”

“I know you are, that’s why I need you to shut up.”

I groan, and I think I know what we’re doing, based on the balance that I’m lacking on whatever he’s placed on my feet. I think they’re ice skates. I hope they’re ice skates.

“Okay, hold on.”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he huffs, untying my blindfold. He knows what today is. It’s six months since we first met, and it’s almost three months since what happened. I’m off my cane, my knee is mostly healed, and I’ve been mostly cleared. The therapy is still ongoing, but I anticipated that. But it wasn’t hard for me to realize we were at the indoor rink. And, empty, to boot.

“What strings did you pull…” I ask, holding my hands out for balance. It’s still shaky, but after a few pushes, I’m off and gliding.

“A favor or two, maybe. Maybe more than that. Why? Why are you asking me this—woah!”

I turn around and watch Greg nearly lose his balance, but he catches himself.

“You’re doing better.”

“How do you have a busted kneecap but still manage better than me?”

“I am better than you.”

He flips me off, gliding towards me. He stops himself by grabbing onto my hips. We spin somewhere in the middle of the rink. I rest my hands on the shoulders of his red hoodie. My favorite. He knows.

"You know, this place hosts a league," he says. "You could totally try out for the team."

"Oh, yeah? What ridiculously named team is that?"

"The North Side Valentines," I says. 

"Are you serious? After the—"

"The St. Valentine's Day Massacre," I finish. He knows better than to get in an argument with me about it right now, but it doesn't matter. The cold air sinks into my lungs. “Thanks, Greg.”

He scoffs, not making eye contact with me and his cheeks turning a color to match his hoodie. “Nah. It’s nothing, I mean—“

“You’re getting awkward again.”

“I’m sorry! I can’t help it.”

“It’s still really cute, so don’t worry,” I say, brushing his wayward hair from his face. He noticeably relaxes, finally looking at me. “Thanks though. I mean it. Not just for this. For… for everything else.”

The blush doesn’t go away, and I start gently gliding forward. He nonchalantly starts gliding in kind.

“I’m kind of slow on the uptake,” I begin, and his smile quickly falls. “No, stop it. Get that worried look off your face. Let me talk. I just… it takes me a while to admit things, I need constant confirmation, I’m really needy…” I sigh. This was harder than I anticipated, but easier than it should be. “You’ve been with me since I got back. You’ve seen everything and you haven’t ran. And I admire that.”

“Yeah, well, just know I am as fucked up as you are,” he says out of the side of his mouth.

“Pretty much. Did you realize you’re skating backwards?”

His face immediately changes—suddenly, he looks down to his feet, then back up again, then almost trips and saves himself. I let go of him and he keeps going, gliding backwards, a look of pure joy on his face.

“Yes! Finally!”

I put my hands on my hips. “You’ve been practicing so you could impress me, haven’t you?”

He gives me a wide grin, like he’d been caught red handed. I close the distance between us, bringing him closer to me. It doesn’t have to be this hard. It doesn’t have to come with a dramatic speech. Greg sees my smile fade, and his does too. Not into a look of concern, not of worry, but he knows. I know he knows.

“I love you,” I finally say. I say it and I mean it.

“Took you long enough,” he scoffs. I smack his arm. “I love you,” he confirms. “I just had to mess with you first.”

“When did you know?”

“When you were gone,” he whispers. “I realized I would be completely lost without you.”

"And without the ability to skate backwards,” I add.

“And yes, without that ability,” He says with a chuckle. “Nah, you’re just the only one who can deal with me.”

“Pretty sure you’re the only one who can deal with me.”

He pulls me closer to him, takes my chin in his hand, and kisses me, kisses me so deeply I can see a cloud of our breath when we break apart. But we’re immediately back together: I hug him close, feeling his heart beat against my chest.

You’ve just got to rebuild, brick by brick. He’s just become my foundation.


End file.
